


The Guesthouse

by onthecuttingroomfloor



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Sex Club, Anal Sex, And maybe just voyeurism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beards (Relationships), Bottom Louis, Bottom Louis Tomlinson, Brief references to past flings with minor original characters, Coming Untouched, Consensual Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, I think I took some liberties with the 1D timeline, Jealous Harry, Jealous Louis, Jealousy, Lace Panties, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Not Beta Read, OT5 Friendship (One Direction), Oral Sex, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Club, Sex Toys, Sexual Tension, Smut, Top Harry, Top Harry Styles, minor characters are original characters, slight exhibitionism, sort of prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:27:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 61,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25673548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onthecuttingroomfloor/pseuds/onthecuttingroomfloor
Summary: Louis has a secret that could break him. With every trip to the Guesthouse, with every fuck he offers himself up for, he gets a piece of the freedom back that he's lost.Seven nights a year he goes to the exclusive sex club; every day he fights to keep that little bit of information to himself.And there's another thing - his unwavering and pointless obsession with his bandmate.There's the Guesthouse, and then there's Harry, and Louis works tirelessly to keep the two apart. Soon, very soon now, he won't be able to.Complete.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, background Zayn Malik/Liam Payne
Comments: 67
Kudos: 269





	1. Day one (part 1): Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so, hi! I hope you enjoy this story. Please kudos and let me know what you think in the comments.
> 
> Oh and an old school disclainer from an old school writer: this is all fiction (OBviously). Please don't repost.

_'The dark thought, the shame, the malice — meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in.'_

The average person keeps five secrets. Five hidden, hurtful, hateful things; incriminating things they'll never tell a single other soul.

Louis, though… Louis has one. One solitary, fucking colossal secret that breeds hundreds of smaller but no less dangerous ones. It'll be the small ones that get him, Louis knows. The countless, evolving little-whites that grow by the day in order to protect that single career-threatening, life-shattering lie.

You see, Louis’ life is exquisite and enviable, but it's very much not his own. It belongs to his label, his management, and his producers. It belongs to the song writers, the media outlets, the make up artists, and to Simon fucking Cowell.

And so sometimes… sometimes, Louis needs out. Not forever, not even for very long, but long enough to be sure that he'll never want out permanently. Somewhere that's still his own. 

For all that, Louis has The Guesthouse.

He knows he can be free there, let strangers fuck the numbness right out of him and fall apart there. And there, he doesn't have to make a single fucking sacrifice, or hold his tongue, or be forced to give another of those disingenuous pep talks of lies that he doesn't even buy himself.

He resolves that he'll square all that with his conscience some other time. He may even smile while doing it.

After all, it took Louis 20 years to realise that his life isn't a dress rehearsal. 

He won't short change himself again.

~

"You got beer, Tommo?"

"Not for you, Horan," Louis snips back, loud enough to be heard from the front door he's just clicking shut to wherever Niall is bellowing. 

That said, he could use some alcohol himself. It's certainly not for Niall that he's detouring to the kitchen, not after he'd so royally stitched Louis up. It's a fact Louis makes very clear.

"I did not stitch you up," Niall counters, yelling through the wall. "They wanted to speak to you."

"They wanted to speak to any one of the five interchangeable members of their boyband. That could have been you. You didn't need to send them my way!" Louis insists, frown slipping into a delighted grin when he opens the fridge to the emerald wink of a beer bottle. He's not so annoyed that he can't spare a moment to be grateful that he'd remembered to go shopping last night. 

_Yep_ , he sighs as the cap clinks off, _yesterday’s Louis did good._

In truth that was about the only thing he got right yesterday, but real time Louis is prepared to overlook the bad for the beer bottle in his hand and the smiles on his friends' faces when he walks into the living room.

Liam looks like he's dragged himself out of a nap at the sound of Louis' voice. It took the boy from Wolverhampton a little longer than the others to realise that if you fall asleep anywhere near Louis, you'll probably wake up with a willy drawn on your face. Perhaps some artful jizz drops on your chest in complement. He's learnt his lesson.

"What news from on high?" Liam asks.

“They wanted to know if Harry's picked out the PAs for interview.” 

Harry, sitting pretty inside a little crop circle of paper, groans low and despairing. “What did you say?”

Louis shrugs, lips tilting up at the edges. “That we don't have hive mind.” 

Zayn scoffs and Louis, uncomfortably, knows exactly what he's thinking. In the early days anyone would've been forgiven for thinking that he and Harry did, in fact, share a brain. Like some sort of paired device arrangement.

He spares Zayn a middle finger, vowing some form of petty vengeance, and throws himself onto the sofa, sending a little breeze to ruffle the CVs around Harry like feathers. “I bought you a bit more time though.”

Dropping his head back against the sofa, Harry looks up at him gratefully. Louis’ palms, which until recently had been open and empty, are now filled with so many glossy conker curls that Louis is inclined to think Gretchen Weiner stashes her secrets in them. 

He does what anyone in his position would do and buries his fingers until they're lost to soft ringlets, telling himself that it’s nothing he wouldn’t do with any of the other boys. He pretends that the difference isn’t there on his face for all to see.

There's no dimple next to Harry’s upside down smile, not yet, but the angle makes his eyes big, rounder even than usual, making Louis think of little lions. 

Then Harry’s pulling his head upright, wincing at the stretch, and picks up a piece of paper from somewhere in the middle as though he has a system in amongst all this chaos.

Their previous PA had been an efficient woman with a french plait perfected to the kind of standard that a brother of five younger sisters could only dream of. Snowboarding broke five important bones in Cally's body and management thought the boys should be included in the process of finding her temporary replacement. What better way of making them feel powerful than partially involving them in the sorts of decisions that don't really matter in the long run?

So Harry, who's always had a genuine interest in people in general, volunteered to narrow down the potential candidates. He's not stupid, he knows he's being puppeted, but they'll take whatever small freedoms they can get.

Louis doesn't envy him though — none of them are qualified to do this and he can't imagine what Harry is looking for in the iron flat sheets of A4. Surely Harry's own CV looks nothing like these.

From selling bread to singing on stages, where he'd teetered into the spotlight with the hands of his hometown and his own insurmountable expectation at his throat, and finally to the here and now, where his birthplace has either embraced or disowned him and there's not a single expectation left to surmount. 

Harry Styles. Saturday boy to star boy. 

Louis can remember Harry's audition like he's watching it all over again. _Isn't she lovely_ , crisp and clear and earnest, shining hopeful eyes and that cheeky boy smile. Anyone would remember that. _Isn't she lovely_. Clever little bastard. 

Louis is glad it's turned out well for him because it seems like he was born to do this. And he's far too hot to be a baker anyway.

One of the CVs has been repurposed into an origami flower and is being twirled between Harry’s thumb and forefinger. Louis plucks it up and gently threads it into the curls above his ear.

Harry offers him a white even-toothed smile. “Louis, Louis, _Louis_ ,” he sing-songs like a fucking loser. “Read this one to me. My eyes hurt."

Louis snaps a piece of paper out of the air between them and clears his throat for drama's sake. "Dear sirs. Ple—"

"Nope," Harry declares, grabbing the covering letter back and balling it into a paper grenade that he throws at Liam when he says,

"Give them a chance."

"A chance to what? Prove just how much of a misogynist they are?"

Liam frowns a little and looks to Zayn for help. Niall seems to be silently willing him not to say what he undoubtedly wants to.

"And before you say it, _Liam_ , the fact I identify as male is coincidence, and is a fact that this person," Harry's mouth twists, "has no right to presume. As though men are the only ones that get to make important decisions."

"Quite right, Hazza."

“Thanks Lou.” Harry bites a petal pink lip. “I really need a love song.” 

“What?" Louis just about croaks out. 

"To make my eyes hurt less," explains Harry nonsensically.

"Yeah alright, Hazza. I’ll write you a love song.”

“Now?”

Under the influence of that pretty look, Louis considers the merits of quickly composing some corny belter about the infinite beauty of Harry's eyes to try and get a laugh, but the real joke is that he genuinely has a handful already written. 

And that's not something people tend to do, is it? As far as he can tell, most people don't write meaningful ballads about their platonic best friends.

Louis takes a deep breath. "No, not now. You can't rush pure genius."

"But Lou," says Harry, threading charm into every eyelash flicker and dimple pop."I need a love song.”

"Don't bitch at me, Styles." He pokes at Harry's cheek repeatedly until he squirms away. "Also, I'm your friend so I feel it's only right to let you know that pouting makes your face ugly." 

A lie.

Harry laughs, a little higher than normal. "You're such a knob."

This whole thing reminds Louis of the fan meets, the poster signings, and all the girls, and occasionally boys, who turn to Louis, forlorn. None of them know how they'll ever get somebody as wonderful as Harry. Surely their fate will be to die alone and unhappy without him.

They tell Louis all about it, and Louis consoles them all. _“You'll find someone, love,”_ he says to each of them, sympathetic smile a bit too real.

They always seem remarkably reassured and only look back at Harry once more in the hope that he'll grace them with a passing glance, maybe another of those sweetheart smiles of his. Which, typically, he does.

And then off they all go, in search of little Harrys of their own. As if they could ever find a Harry even remotely like Louis’.

Fidgeting, Louis focuses his attention back to the living room in time to hear Liam ask, "How's it going with that bloke, Harry?"

Harry hisses and it takes a second for Louis to realise that it's not a response to the question but the nails Louis is digging into his scalp.

"What bloke?" Zayn asks. "Oh shit, the one with all the Hawaiian shirts?"

Niall laughs. “Good fun, that one. Maybe a bit much after a couple of pina coladas.”

“Bit tacky,” Louis suggests.

Harry grins, bright and all consuming, which is a bit of a strange response for someone who’s supposed to be into this guy. “His name's Kit and you're all making him sound like a cheap package holiday."

Niall snickers.

"As it happens, things with him aren't 'going' at all anymore," Harry shrugs. "I don't think he was that interested, to be honest."

Zayn tilts his head. "Curls not his thing?" 

"Not a grabber then," Louis' mouth says before he can stop it. 

Harry's eyes widen, startled laugh on his lips. 

Louis knows from several teenage years of learning the hard way, that the only solution for potential embarrassment is humour, so he shrugs, grin dirty, then thrusts his tongue into the side of his cheek a couple times because it's bound to make Zayn snort with laughter. 

Niall swoops in with a rather spirited charade of getting head, hands grabbing for imaginary curls. Louis cackles with the rest of them, but he'll thank Niall every time he needs to kill an ill-timed boner.

"Speaking of sex," Niall says when he's done with his fake orgasm. "Maybe mister 'last minute deal to Ibiza'—"

"Kit," Harry puts in.

"—wasn't feeling the chemistry."

Niall's clearly messing around, but Harry's humming as though he's spent time genuinely considering the possibility. "I don't think it was the sex," he muses slowly. "He seemed… quite impressed."

Louis coughs on nothing. 

There's no doubt that Harry likes attention, that he'll show off to get it, but he doesn't boast. In fact, he's pretty modest as far as anyone in this business can be. And that’s how Louis knows that ‘quite impressed’ is a colossal understatement.

"It's probably for the best. It was getting harder to hide the whole thing from management."

Louis' eyelids sink closed for a long second. He empathises, he does. He gets it more than any of them and that's what gives him the twisting, bitter lemon sigh on his lips. Harry has to hide himself from management, and that sucks, but Louis has long realised that the ability to hide is an unexpected gift. Harry flies under the radar, pushing the boundaries with a few rainbow coloured innuendos that he gets away with because the media have grabbed his womaniser label like it's a fuck ton of gold, and he remains un-outed. But Louis has lost that, and now he fights for himself in a delicate game of reputational Kerplunk.

Harry shrugs. "It wasn't really going anywhere anyway. Guess I'm not a seven nights all-inclusive in Magaluf kinda guy."

Niall cackles and waggles his eyebrows. "Fuck off, you aren't. You'll take whatever you can get."

"True," Harry concedes.

Not true, Louis thinks, because for all he likes to think of Harry as his own, he's only ever come close to that once, and only for approximately half a minute before Harry decidedly didn't take what he absolutely could have gotten. 

That half a minute in December 2012, when they could have been more, when before there was something and after there was nothing. Yeah, that thirty seconds breaks Louis a bit. But he can’t think about it now, he’ll think about it later when he’s horny and drunk and pissed with the world. 

For now, force feeding discarded CVs into the back of Niall's joggers serves as the perfect distraction.

"Hey," Niall grunts. "I dog sat for you all afternoon while you were galavanting about!"

"How very noble of you," snarks Louis. "I expect you helped eat some of my food too while I was listening to a pile of bullshit about maintaining an age-appropriate image."

Niall looks a bit contrite. "Maybe. But I did sign for a parcel from DHL for you." 

_Parcel._

Louis' skin ignites, hand stuttering on it's way to his beer.

_Could it…?_

Somewhere in the seconds he wastes wondering, hoping that he knows where this unexpected delivery was sent from and why, he misses his cue to bitch Niall out. It's not very _Louis_ to pass up the opportunity to cast out a jibe about the terrible sacrifice his friend must have made to scrawl his name on a tablet, but he's distracted, excited eyes searching the room for any hint of brown paper. 

It's not like him at all, but it happens, and Zayn notices.

"So it's a good parcel," Zayn deduces slyly.

Liam's eyebrows go up, Harry's lips slide into a filthy grin that Louis ignores, and Niall grabs a box from down the side of the sofa and shakes it. "Maaate," he grins. "Are rabbits rampant in here?"

“I disapprove of sex, you know this,” Louis tuts haughtily. He restrains himself for all of two seconds before he's desperately grabbing for the box. "Stop shaking it. Give it here."

Niall sits on it while Louis tries to dislodge him. "No way."

"Get off, you could break it. Stop fucking squashing it. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

Niall cackles. "Yep — desperate for a shag, copy that."

In the end, a quick nipple twist has Niall falling off the box and onto the floor with a yelp.

He must look ridiculously triumphant because Zayn, Liam and Harry's laughter gets louder.

"You're all a bunch of wankers," Louis informs them. "I hate this band."

With that he heads to his room, taking his smirk and his parcel with him.

~

The gift is gold. It sits, shivering and blinking in Louis' hands, reflecting the light so his walls shimmer with it.

He fidgets on his bed, a hot beat of something low and dirty revving his pulse, knowing that he couldn't look away from the gilded mask in his lap even if he tried. It shines no matter how he tilts it, and Louis' eyes have always been greedy for something pretty.

The mask comes paired with a simple white business card that's equally bright. He's seen these cards before — a few; never enough. An invitation a day for the seven days each year that the club opens its doors. The date changes every time but at the first sight of those pearly little squares, he knows it's _on_. This is the week.

Every card is branded 'The Guesthouse', each is embossed with the same address — all of them get Louis' palms itching. 

This one's etched with today's date and an hour not so far from now, and Louis knows what it means. 

There’s a hot fat teardrop of lust dropping low in his belly. And all because he knows what it means.

~

Louis’ first visit to the Guesthouse had been the unforeseen result of a clumsy misunderstanding. 

He'd rocked up with a new friend, a guy called Reuban who looked exotic and sounded proper but who drank Louis under the table at the bar they'd met in three hours and two streets earlier.

Louis had followed the alcohol to a side-door Primrose Hill address, grinning unreservedly to the beautiful boy that opened the door before sobering instantly only a few words into his greeting, tipsy laugh catching in his throat. 

They were at a sex club. 

Louis was at an exclusive sex club, with strangers going at it right next to him, and he'd never gotten harder quicker.

He let himself be led around, a charge in the air that snapped like static. His trainers shuffled on hardwood floors the colour of rich espresso, hands trembling with excitement at the hem of his tshirt and eyes wide in breathless amazement.

If walls and bedsheets could talk, Louis thought that maybe these would have stories to tell. Stories of extravagance, decadence. And he wanted in.

Then Louis, who’s restraint had been pulled paper thin for far too long, turned to one of the gloriously naked guys who'd come to pay for it, and let him fuck Louis' desperation away. 

He hadn't planned a return visit. He figured that he'd finally gotten a taste of everything he wasn’t supposed to want, and that would be it. 

The fact that this little bit of rebellion also banked him the perfect ammunition to throw in face of Modest was a coincidental masterstroke. He'd planned to save it up, to use it when he needed it the most, punch them in the balls with it and watch them squirm. 

But he never did; he'd just kept it for himself, and he kept going back. 

It’s not for every day, but there are days when Liam is tightly wound about staging, when Niall is more carefree than he is free, when Harry’s larynx fails around the same high note he’d nail on any other day. Nights when Zayn’s eyes are harder than normal, and when Louis doesn’t hear a percussive backing track but the clanging of cage bars. 

The Guesthouse doesn't deal in cracked hearts and pain. It deals in euphoric grins and shameless, blameless pleasure. Instead of bitter breaks and empty arms, it pays in sated hunger, scratched itches and ego boosts, until you’re worth something again. It looks like sin in bricks and mortar and feels like responsibilities sliding off sloping shoulders.

Louis knows that if the foundations of his lie crack and fail then it's game over, but that's still not enough to stop him. He'll keep going back because until the day he can have the one thing he wants, he'll take everything he can get.

So now, Louis is kicking his heels up on the sofa, throwing them off again, fidgeting with the lobe of his ear then glaring at his watch, which seems to be waiting too. 

They wait together — him and the tick and the tock. While the latter are steady and patient, Louis is not. They all know that Reuben will text eventually but the wait is fucking painful.

Finally, his phone dings. _Your guests await_.

Louis grins. “Right, I’m going out," he announces. Then adds, “To the pub,” because the last thing he wants his mates to know is that he's fucking strangers on the regular. It's a risky strategy though — he's banking on the others being too tired and too invested in Louis' Sky Atlantic package to invite themselves along.

"To drink?” Zayn raises an eyebrow, eyes run through with mischief.

Louis raises both of his. “No, to lapdance." 

And here's Liam with an eye roll and the voice of someone that sounds like they've never experienced fun. "Paul won't be happy. He said to lay off the alcohol before recording tomorrow."

"Says the man holding the vodka."

There’s a funny little snort of laughter from the floor and Louis’ eyes swing to where Harry is leaning back on his hands, legs spread, still wearing the paper flower and the diamond mine smile from earlier.

Louis doesn't blush easily — it’s just that sometimes Harry’s eyes fall heavy, like Louis is meant to know what he’s thinking. He rarely does these days, but Harry's gaze is weighted all the same and it sends shivers through Louis from head to toe. But they're good shivers. Like cool sheets on naked skin.

It spins Louis' mind how nostalgic this feels. Everything from the point he walked in today, from the curls looping Louis' fingers to Harry's sweet sweet smile. But it's all an empty promise. 

They're nothing like the Louis and Harry from the early days, when Louis had monopolised all of Harry's attention — all of Harry's everything, from the dimples he used to pinch, to the arms he used to cuddle in — and Harry had let him. No, it's nothing like anything they had back then, because Louis remembers how their skies used to touch and now they just draw closer only to drift further apart. 

It's not like anything even really happened or changed. Apart from time, Louis thinks, and his own willingness to let it.

It should be a bit sad, and it is, but more than that, he feels an odd, comforting throwback, precisely the kind that he stows safely away for the harder days. It almost tempts him to stay but when Harry gets a text, their eyes break, and so does the spell.

Louis doesn't turn away in time to avoid seeing a wild blush pinch at Harry's cheeks. Instead, he helplessly witnesses Harry fidget, eyes wide, lip trapped between his teeth. Whatever he's been sent… well, it's clearly fucking doing it for him, and for a second Louis' forgets he's got somewhere great to be and jealousy bites at his insides, dark and edged like twisted metal.

"What?" Niall demands on entry, face falling ridiculously as he pauses in the doorway and sees Louis halfway out the flat. "You're abandoning film night _again_."

"Aww, try not to miss me too much, Nialler. Help yourself to anything. My sex drawer is second to none.”

Niall looks worryingly placated and Liam throws a miniature Smirnoff at Louis' face.

Louis sips it happily.

“I’m gonna need that back!” Liam protests loudly as Louis laughs his way out the door.

Stubbornly, Louis is almost at the Guesthouse by the time he allows himself to think about Harry's odd behaviour as he left. He'd been tidying up CVs as though he might be considering leaving too, and Louis'd felt a shock of fear that he might try to tag along on Louis' fake pub trip, but then Harry smiled his goodbye and to any outsider it would seem completely, pleasantly normal. 

Only, Louis has seen Harry’s eyes most hours of most days since they jumped into each other's arms at boot camp. It's not like he doesn't know they're huge and moss green and pretty, and he knows when something's up. Right then, it seemed an awful lot like Harry was hiding something.

Louis' sighs. He's probably thinking too much, he recognises that. But there's also a distinct possibility that he's not actually thinking _enough_.


	2. Day one (part 2): Mirrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This picks up where chapter one left off and is pretty much a whole chapter of smut.
> 
> Let me know what you think (please) :)

Louis is volatile, so they say. All flinty angles, quick feet and quicker wit. Either too soft or too sharp, depending on the day or who you speak to. 

He's heard the words so many times, they fill him up inside, toes to tears, stacking one on top of the other, but words can't hurt him here. At the Guesthouse, he knows he's wanted despite his faults, and maybe even because of them. 

Wanted, needed. Significant. Much better words, and ones he could almost feel worthy of as he takes in the sight of himself naked and gilded in gold.

He'll close the shutters over the mirror in front of him before tonight's Guest walks in but while he waits, he takes in his reflection. The mask fits perfectly, covering the top half of his face, and it's stunning, Venetian maybe, and that must be the theme tonight. The hectic colour of carnival, the dark lush of the fair. The other boys that offer themselves up to clients here will all have been sent themed gifts. He can't imagine anything as awesome as this, though.

His skin is painted, a gilt sheen across his body. Lori had helped him with that, head tipped in concentration, sleep black bob as dark and shiny as her eyes. Louis has known her as long as he's known Reuban, as far back as his first visit to the Guesthouse when he'd introduced himself as 'Lou'. If either of them know who he really is, they haven't let on and have never commented on the cost of the things he wears or that his face looks familiar. And they haven't tattled on him either, nor have any of the other staff or Guests here.

Lori is talented and takes no shit and she's somehow drawn little bronze flowers that tumble over one of Louis' cheekbones and trail over the side of his jaw.

Every room in the House is different and they're changed up regularly too. Around him, the room is simple. Walls lacquered ochre with varnished wood panels, dim but for the chandelier light from teardrop crystals. The only furniture here is the bar Louis had asked for his wrists to be strapped to. On it is a subtle LED traffic light coloured button system, and on his cuffs, a tiny panic alarm.

Arousal tugs at his belly as he waits. He's needed this, needed to let himself go, feel the strength that comes from being weak. A year is too long.

He smiles, relieved as the door snicks open, smiles harder when he hears the guy suck in a lungful of air. Louis regrets covering the mirror in that moment. He knows what he looks like, strung up, soft light shimmering across the gold on his skin, wrapping around the muscle of his biceps, smoothing over the thickness of his thighs and contouring the dips of his waist. He knows all this, and that his ass doesn't look half bad either, because he made Lori take a picture, but he wants to see this guy's face as he takes his fill and watches the flecks of golden light sparkle off Louis' skin like spun sugar.

"Oh my god," Louis hears, a whisper that's almost indecipherable, then louder, "Fuck," and Louis' stomach twists sharply.

There's a feeling like ice water sluicing through his veins as his brain tries to work out why that voice sounds familiar. Then it hits him.

Oh god. Oh _god_. It can't be… he just has Harry on the brain, that's all… but it is. It absolutely is.

So here's a relevant story. Six days before his XFactor audition, Louis was choked up with nerves and so horny that he was seriously considering cruising for a guy at the rec down the road. Stan was a good mate and was there to remind him what a truly terrible idea that was — not least because Louis still wasn't out, and the kids in Donny were like fucking pitbulls with lockjaw when they had something to gnaw on — then he took pity and let Louis tag along to a house party at his cousin's. 

Louis didn't stop grinning the entire ride there. Cheshire was far enough away that Louis could find a guy to go down on and it would never return to haunt him. 

So that's what he did. But as he was stumbling out of the bathroom afterwards, the nameless guy pawing at his back, his eyes tripped on two boys snogging in the room opposite, grinding desperately up against each other and threatening to rock Stan's cousin's wardrobe over. 

Louis' eyes easily skimmed past the taller one, blond buzzcut and nose piercing, not because he wasn't hot — Louis could tell just from his profile that he was — but because he couldn't help being drawn to the other one, with his head a riot of curls, lips berry red as he kissed slow and thorough and all consuming, hands greedy and insatiable. And god, the sounds he made.

Louis had just come at the hands of a cute University Fresher but the sight right in front of him was enough to rob the air from his lungs and send blood pounding back to his dick.

_"You coming downstairs?"_ The Fresher asked, teeth nibbling a line up his neck, hands nudging him forward.

_And miss this?_

Louis swallowed. _"No, mate. I'm good here."_

His feet were planted like roots, mouth slack and so turned on. The Fresher followed his eyes and apparently agreed because he didn't bother trying to convince Louis otherwise and he abandoned any attempts to head down the stairs himself. 

Instead, they watched, the only invitation an unclosed door and it felt so wrong, but the boy with the sounds growled so low into the other boy's mouth and his hips stuttered and lost their rhythm as though he was fucking coming in his jeans.

_"Fuck,"_ the boy gasped, breaking the kiss to let out a short bark of exhilarated laughter. _"Fuck."_

And every night for the next five nights, Louis dreamt about it, religiously reliving the scene that had ended with him spinning around and pushing the Fresher back into the room they'd just come from so he could get off again.

For five long days, he cursed Stan and his cousin's super gay house party and couldn't get the sounds out of his head. The scrape of zippers, the clink of belts colliding between frantic rocks, and that one word.

_"Fuck."_

When the boy says it now, his voice is a shade deeper, rich with anticipation rather than loose with exhilaration. "Fuck."

_Shit. Shit shit shit._

Louis loves that voice. Crystal at the edges and little hits of sandpaper rough, always syruping over the lower registers. Louis knows that voice like he knows its owner scratches at his stubble when he bends the truth, how his eyes will always get lit and giggly when he hears the word moist.

It's Harry. Without a doubt. Louis would have known even if he'd never heard him get off, for the first time at a Cheshire house party or the handful of times since, when he'd overheard Harry with his own hand in a cramped bus bunk or a shared hotel room. Not to mention that thirty seconds in December 2012 when Louis had almost been a shade more involved than his previous role of accidental voyeur.

There's nothing _almost_ about the way Harry is crossing the room towards him like he can't keep away. 

Despite the fact that Louis' hands are shaking and that under his make up he must be white as a sheet, his prick kicks in anticipation. He doesn't know whether he can't believe his good luck or wants to curse his misfortune, doesn't understand how this has happened or how to stop it or which way is up.

He should end this now but he knows he won't.

"Is this okay?" Harry breathes quietly, coming to a stop where there is still a bit of space between them. "Shit sorry, they said you wouldn't talk. I just forgot, what with all the... fuck, you're so hot."

A crack of lust hits so hard in Louis' belly that he almost doubles over. He could come right now, untouched, unkissed, and it would still be the best thing that's ever happened to him.

It's then that all the fear settles back on top of him. One panicked thought stands out, and it's probably not the one that should. What if Harry’s found him out and is here to tease him and fuck with his head. 

He should be more concerned about this big fucking lie he's created for himself and how this could be the earthquake that flattens it. He should be seeing a metaphorical Pandora's box cracking wide open, a volcano burning his bridges, not flakes of ash in the shape of his broken heart. But betrayal hits harder. 

Then slowly, very slowly, his brain kick starts, and he remembers that this is _Harry_. Louis’ Harry. Well, not-really Louis’ Harry but he ought to be for the way Louis knows him. Sugary, and when you least expect it, salty. Thoughtful and kind and progressive. Cheeky and delicious. A virtual rainbow of a boy. Not a betrayer at all.

And there's no way Harry could have guaranteed getting Louis tonight anyway. It's the first night of opening week so there's no booking — it's just luck of the draw which Guests get which boy and which room. The rest of the week is different, but tonight rooms are randomly assigned, first come first served. 

So Louis puts aside his paranoia and wonders what Harry wants. What he came to the Guesthouse for, and whether he can be that for him. 

Louis knows he’s a good fuck. Knows he’s been so many men’s best, but none of it will matter a damn if he can’t be that for Harry. By the little breathy exhale Harry makes as he lets his eyes slide up and down the expanse of Louis' back, he's doing alright so far.

The tension eases from his jaw slightly, and he forgets the rest as he feels Harry's fingers brush his shoulder blade.

"They said that I shouldn't tell you my name either." He sounds just shy of certain, looking for confirmation. "I've never actually done this before." 

If this were anyone else, Louis might be scoffing, _no kidding_ , but Louis has spent so many days of his life looking out for this boy and responding to that little inflection that tells him he's hesitant, and it sucks to not turn around and hug him, but Louis' hoping for so much more and it's worth it to bite his tongue and grip the bar harder.

"Could you maybe nod or shake your head instead? So I know if what I'm doing is okay?"

Forget nodding or shaking his head, Louis wants to roll his eyes fondly. This is so typically Harry that he can't not. He nods anyway, obediently.

The silence itself isn't strictly necessary. Harry was probably let in by Reuban who knows that Louis likes the option to stay mute if he wants to. Sometimes it's just nice to not have to think and to just do as he's told. It may sound like a sick mirroring of his closeted real life, but if it is, it's a fun house mirror and Louis knows the trick inside out. His mirror, his rules, and that makes the world of difference. Louis can't say he wasn't relieved when Harry referenced it — the whole thing plays into his hands now more than ever because if he uttered a word now, Harry would be on to him.

“I can't believe…” Harry starts then trails off, two hands sliding down the sweep of Louis spine, leaving little chills in their wake. “You could almost…you could almost be him.”

Harry sounds so awed and Louis is hit with a blunt stab of jealousy that burns in his chest painfully. Slowly, Harry's index fingers trace up either side of Louis' thighs, dipping in with the shape of his waist, and it starts to dawn on him that Harry might actually be thinking about him. Harry doesn’t know many boys who curve like Louis does. It’s something Louis has struggled with his whole life and only recently, finally, the scales have tipped from insecurity to acceptance to contentment, possibly even pride. 

Smile slowly spreading on his face, Louis tilts his pelvis to see if he can tempt Harry to touch him some more. After a second, Harry's palms find the dip above his ass, his hands burning like the beating heat of August, and Louis gives in to the soft pressure, curving his spine in a deep arch that aches so good.

_You idiot,_ he tells himself. _This is so stupid._

Harry's breath stutters out, warm where it hits the cool skin of Louis’ neck and something like liquid sex darts down his spine and throbs in his dick. He hears Harry inhale sharply as he fills his hands with Louis' bum, and squeezes.

Making a sound now is bound to give him away but it's so hard as Harry pulls him flush against his taller, broader body. It's a crying shame that Harry still has clothes on. The boy must agree because in the next second Louis feels him pull away a fraction to tug off his shirt and push down his jeans, then returns to press miles of beautiful warm skin and the line of his erection against Louis' back.

Louis drags in a breath, his body burning and mind screaming. This is Harry. _Harry_ , who Louis has loved since he was 18 years old, in that unobtainable unrequited way that chars the heart.

Now Harry's here, as unreal as it seems, and Louis wants to touch him so much, reach blindly back and hold Harry's hips in place because he's starving for it. He thinks Harry's cock would be velvety soft in his hand, heavy and hot. He wants to drop to his knees and sweep it across his lips, hold it on his tongue and let it slide down. His hands are restrained so he can't, but because he trusts that Harry would release him if he wanted it, being bound feels even better than all that, makes his eyes roll back and his hips roll back to grind into Harry's lap.

"Oh ffuck," Harry moans low and raw. Louis can practically hear Harry grit his teeth and feels him chase the feeling with little rabbity thrusts at Louis' backside.

It’s certainly not the reaction the British public would expect from the nation’s darling, but that's what makes it so peversely good.

Big hands that shimmer with the gold from Louis' skin venture around to slide up his torso, fingers flicking over neglected nipples. The combination of the stimulation and seeing that little cross tattoo stretched as Harry splays his hand possessively on his chest has Louis letting slip a cracked moan that bounces off the walls.

The sound must do things for Harry, things that make his hands a bit rougher, inspiring him to push up against Louis' ass, arms wrapping him up and pressing the air out of his lungs, never letting an inch of space between them. 

And his… his cock is sliding against Louis' skin, painting pre-come across his hip, grinding into the small of his back then slipping between Louis' cheeks.

"I can't…" Harry groans, hands roaming Louis' body like they could never be quick or big enough. "I can't fucking think."

The mixture of sweat and desperate hands threatens to palm away the body paint and Louis just hopes it holds, otherwise Harry's stuttering grip on his bicep will show antlers and a heart and something that looks a bit like a shattered friendship.

There isn't the time to think about that for long, though.

"I really want to fuck you," Harry throws out there, so turned on it's almost a drawl. "Do you want that? Can you nod or— okay, great, shit yeah. Let me…"

Louis' toes are curling by the time Harry's hands have worked their way to the lube and then back to his ass, and Harry moans into his neck as a slicked finger teases its way between his cheeks to circle his rim and gently press inside. 

"You're so beautiful," Harry tells him a few minutes later, a shiver of amazement in his voice as he pulls his finger out and replaces it with two. "I wish I knew what to call you," he says.

_I wish you were mine,_ Louis thinks.

He has to squeeze his eyes shut, riding out the waves of pleasure as the pads of Harry's fingers curl to rub over his prostate.

Only when Louis is purring and writhing, hips helplessly rocking into thin air and ready to come whether Harry's cock is inside him or not, does he feel Harry's fingers ease out and the blunt head of his cock drag across his left buttock. When it bumps over Louis' hole, stretched open and shiny with lube, Harry's fingers tighten on the flesh of his hips. Louis hopes to god that he's left with a daisy chain of purpling bruises to remember this by.

Steadily, Harry presses inside, pausing with a gasp when his tip is clutched in tight heat, then he rests his grip on Louis' waist and rocks forward in one smooth thrust until he's buried deep and Louis' eyes are rolling back and his head tips up to knock against the front of Harry's shoulder with a happy hiss of a sigh.

The stretch is obscenely good. He really wishes he'd been able to get a good look at that dick, to see Harry hard and know it's for him, because of him. At least he gets to feel him.

_Harry._

Louis suddenly can't stand not being able to look at him, and although he knows it's a monumentally stupid idea, he pushes the tiny button to pull the shutters up and reveal the mirror.

It's only going to make this worse, seeing Harry's face lax with pleasure, watching him drink Louis up and worship him, knowing he'll never get to have it again. The decision has to have come from the same masochistic part of his brain that takes a bite of the best chocolate cheesecake he’s ever tasted and is sad that he loves it so much because he knows that he'll only want more when the slice is eaten and gone. But in reality, there's always more cake and being fucked like this, fucked by Harry, is only going to come around once. 

Harry falters only slightly when the blinds rise, and his only response is to hold Louis tighter to him, which Louis will take any day of the week. In the mirror, Harry's eyes are hungry and dark and Louis realises the real risk he's taken as they lock with his own wild eyes, shining flame blue through the holes in the mask.

Harry's face twitches with want and he moans low and loud, filling Louis' ears and pouring heat through his veins to settle in all the places that make him want to fall apart.

Louis didn't think this through. Seeing Harry now is almost too much but he won't shut his eyes or look away. He knows this body, knows the stories inked across its skin, the hard lines and soft curves, but he's never known it like this, muscles bunching and glistening with sweat, black swallows quivering. 

Louis gasps sharply, lips falling open, sweating with the effort it takes to keep from losing focus and just holds on for dear life as Harry wraps his hands around Louis' wrists on the gold bar where he can probably feel Louis' pulse jump, and thrusts steadily. It's sexy as hell and all Louis can do is watch and moan as Harry's eyes trip down to watch his ass jiggle with every slap of skin.

He's witnessed Harry intense before, has even been the focus of it, but this is very different. Harry's face relaxes and tenses as the pleasure takes him and it sparks up a wild lust in Louis when he was sure he couldn't get any harder. God, Louis is so attracted to him it almost hurts.

The thrill in Louis' gut builds and burns as he sways back into Harry's hold, fucking back onto his cock as quick and thorough as he can without leverage. Harry’s practically vibrating and Louis is feverish. They're so close and Louis wants to come so bad, to come in Harry's arms just this once.

By this point, it seems that Harry has had enough of Louis pushing the pace and slows right down, hands drawing up the back of Louis' thighs to press against the crease where his bottom slopes, and effectively stills his movements.

Louis kind of wants to punch him in the face.

"Easy. I'll take care of you," Harry soothes, dropping the last word into Louis' ear.

Louis somehow whines and growls at once, this is so hot but he's so desperate. Harry's going to end up driving them both crazy and the way things are going he'll be a begging mess in no time.

Turns out, he doesn't have enough patience in reserve for the current lack of friction on his dick or the emptiness inside, and something snaps.

“Just fuck me, Styles.”

Harry’s whole body tenses when the words register. And so does Louis'. 

In the half second that follows, he thinks about how this is the exact situation that will ruin him. He watches Harry's reflection, helpless as Harry pieces everything together. He expects to feel his world tilt, but in real life it's all about fractions and nuances, there's no apocalypse to save him from having to pick up the pieces.

“Shit,” Louis hisses, ready to run if Harry balks. 

He's such a fucking idiot but it's too late to take it back now and all he feels is a panicked sense of urgency when Harry's fingers loosen their hold on him as though he's about to move away. Louis doesn't blame him but he can't let that happen.

“No, no," he rushes out, going to move his hands to stop Harry's retreat only to remember that his wrists are bound. “No Harry, please. Don't stop now. I'm so close… please.”

"What the fuck, Louis," Harry demands roughly, eyes locking with Louis' and searching for answers, and Louis would be worried but for the stuttering roll of his hips and the desperation in the muttered, “Lou,” that comes next. "What are you doing here for fucks sake?"

Heart thundering in his chest, Louis squeezes his eyes shut. "Just… fuck me," he chokes out. His skin is burning and too tight and he honestly thinks he might break down if Harry leaves now. There was a part of him that still thought Harry might have had an inkling that it was him but Louis can tell now that he had no clue and a huge wave of guilt grips him. "Fuck, I'm sorry."

"Shh, it's alright," Harry says, voice softening to a soothing burr. "I've got you." 

A solid arm loops around Louis' waist, an anchor grounding him. Louis feels the air thicken at that. "Yeah," he sighs before Harry changes his mind and shuffles his feet wider in invitation.

Harry slowly pulls out and dicks back into him, a gentle hand finding the curve of his jaw to guide Louis' head up so their eyes meet in the mirror as he fucks him quicker.

Louis watches Harry's reflection as he carefully tilts Louis' head like he wants to share breath or kiss him. It's a step too far with Louis' head all over the place, as he works so hard to keep the shame and embarrassment at bay, and he stubbornly keeps his head straight, eyes as bright and as sharp as chipped glass. Harry takes the look for the warning it is but it only seems to make him more determined to wreck Louis for all other men.

The burst of pleasure when Harry finds his prostate again is raw and electric and his whole body tenses and shudders, nerves alight with it. "Fuck," he sobs as he hears Harry's breath catch.

"God, Louis."

Louis' heart turns over and he grips the gold bar in his hands until he thinks it might squeal and buckle.

And then Harry really starts moving, sending shocks to Louis' toes with every snap that crashes them together, making his dick slap up against his stomach. All the while, Harry holds Louis' eyes as black almost entirely swallows blue.

They won't last much longer. Louis stands tough but it feels like his knees could buckle, muttering half-formed thoughts around his teeth as he bites down on his arm, and Harry is muttering curses of his own, barely there words of praise panted hard against Louis' cheek as he chases his climax. 

Louis is losing it, orgasm pulling taut in his belly but he wants to watch Harry get there first. Just when he's about to unravel, Harry's hands skid desperately over his skin and he says, "I'm— Louis, _fuck_ ," before releasing deep inside him with a bitten off cry.

His nails dig sharp into Louis' hips, keen hoarse and buried against the nape of Louis' neck, and knowing he's done this for Harry, to Harry, tips Louis over the edge and has him coming up his chest before Harry can reach around to help him out.

Mind blissed white, Louis traps his lower lip between his teeth as he rides it out, Harry's hand jerking him through the aftershocks.

It's Harry that recovers first. Not by much, but enough to pull the strings of Louis’ mask and let it drop while Louis is still floating somewhere out of orbit. 

"Louis?" Harry prompts quietly, fingers finding the back of Louis' neck.

Louis leans back into the touch, humming. He'd come untouched — he honestly can't remember the last time that happened. Harry must have something special going on. 

"Lou, are you okay?" 

He hears the words, feels them all the way to his bones. Then he remembers it's Harry and his brain snaps back online with a dizzying rush. There's sex in the air and striped white on his belly. Harry's carefully pulling out and releasing his wrists from the cuffs, and it's all very real. Panic is firing his nerves which only a second ago had been sated.

There are three things he knows for sure: that he's absolutely mortified; that he had one secret for himself and one idealistic crush, both of which have been snatched away within minutes; and that Harry's eyes are so purposeful and determined that there's no way he can be allowed to have the first word.

"Don't," Louis warns, whipping round to face Harry and forcing a little bit of space between them. He has to fight the instinct to cover himself up. Gold body paint is one layer more than Harry has, but Louis still feels like he's the one stripped bare.

Harry's chest is heaving, sweat matting some of his hair to his face in little kiss curls. His handsome face frowns at Louis' words, but he's wearing a strange expression that Louis doesn't have the brain space to place. 

"Lou, I just… I can't believe…" Harry clears his throat and scratches the back of his neck with a half shrug, and then he smiles, shy but sure.

And yet, Louis can't for the life of him push through his fear to see an olive branch when it's handed to him. “You need to leave. Now.”

Harry startles. "What?" His eyes aren't anywhere near as green as they looked a minute ago. "No, I- wait-” 

"Get. Out."

“Louis, we need to talk.” Harry searches Louis' face. 

Louis exhales, ragged and shaken. They'll go round in big suffocating circles if Louis doesn't put a stop to it. "I _am_ talking, and I'm saying get out. I don't want you here so fucking leave before I hit the panic button."

He's in flight mode so the words aren't a lie, but Harry's flinching away from him like his fingertips are blistering, face a picture of betrayal, and Louis is quickly regretting the words. Maybe he should have softened them a little, sanded down some of those splintered edges. 

But it feels like his life is crashing around him, giving him the world but ruining it first, so even if he wanted to tell Harry some soft reassurances about how everything is going to be quite alright, he doesn't have the imagination.

"Alright," Harry concedes, quickly like he's worried Louis might claw at his eyes any minute, sad like his best friend is treating him like shit for what they both know is just a fucked up twist of fate. "Okay, I'll go."

It takes far too long in Louis' opinion for him to back up to the exit and leave through it, hitching his jeans up over his hips and grabbing his shirt from the floor, but finally the soundproof door kisses closed behind him.

Mechanically, Louis stumbles to the ensuite and cranks the shower on. He needs to remember that this is just sex. Sex does things for people. It gives Louis back a piece of himself he thought was lost, and it makes Harry unintentionally want to bone his bandmate. Who knew.

Louis collapses against the wall of the shower and waits for the water to heat up to scorching. 

It's his own fault really. He shouldn't have dared to hope that everything would work out. Wonderful things shouldn’t happen in real life. Wonderful things like cocoa dusted curls and improbable green eyes. Wonderful things like that were created with only one purpose in mind. To fuck people up. In this case, Louis.

It's just like he predicted, the very first day. Harry is special, and special doesn't hang around. Eventually Harry will leave. Then Louis will be left to make the most of whatever scraps are left of the world.

But it will break him to think of it, so he grinds his forehead into the tile and focuses on washing away the dirt, and come, and the cover of Harry’s fingerprints.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaargh cliffhanger - sorry. 
> 
> Next up: more Louis POV plus some Harry POV, a Talk, more OT5 friendship, some more angst, and some more smut. 
> 
> There's still a way to go with this story and although there is angst, let me help by saying that there will be a happy Larry ending.


	3. Day two (part 1): Rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a very quick note to say that after I wrote this chapter I realised how ridiculously long it was and it worked a whole lot better to split it into two. So this chapter is part one of day two (I live to confuse) and I'll be posting (the already written) part two tomorrow. 
> 
> Thanks for reading - I'd love to hear what you think :)

That Harry will want to talk about the night before is as inevitable as Harry himself. 

It may as well be written into their schedules. Waiting, quiet but unavoidable. It's there in the awkward energy Harry brings to their writing session that morning, in his unnecessary focus on the bacon and beans he's preparing for breakfast in Liam’s kitchen, it's on the tilt of every pointed stare he throws at Louis' carefully averted eyes. 

He’s not one to hide in dark places. Or, as it turns out, in the bright dawn of morning.

“Can I borrow you for a minute, Louis?”

Louis squeezes his eyes shut. Shit, here we go. He’s only just sat down.

When he looks up, Harry is standing there between Liam's living room and kitchen. He’s unreadable, leaning against the bare wood and wiping his hands on a stripey dishcloth, wearing something floaty and duck egg blue. He looks hot, always hot, but today Louis is too stressed to do anything more than accept it as a natural fact of life.

When did this happen? When did Harry fall into his skin and own it?

“I’m a little busy right now," Louis replies casually, picking up his tea only to realise that he’s left a scorch mark on the coffee table. He ineffectually rubs a socked toe at it and hopes Liam won't notice.

“I need to talk to you," Harry insists, eyes and voice steady, "about breakfast. It needs seasoning.” 

Louis narrows his eyes, irritated that Harry is too stubborn to let him off the hook and too arrogant to make up a decent excuse. 

Louis' voice is light, even if his eyes scream bloody murder. “Don't see as I have much to add to that seasoning, Harold.” 

Niall nods agreeably, a pencil behind his ear and a guitar pick between his teeth. "Louis knows fuck all about seasoning, Haz." 

Louis loves Niall so much. 

“Alright," Harry declares, cheerfully. “We can talk seasoning in the kitchen, or we can talk seasoning _here_.” He looks at Louis pointedly. “In front of everyone.”

Louis feels the smile slide right off his face. 

"Really, Harry,” Zayn starts. “I don't want to eat anything Louis has literally had anything to do with."

"No, it’s fine," Louis snaps quickly. "I mean, _fuck you_ actually, Zayn. I've been watching Saturday Kitchen, don't you know.”

Zayn’s confusion doesn’t go unnoticed. In fact, Niall and Liam are mirroring it. Fuck Harry for coming up with such a ridiculous diversion. 

Louis races into the kitchen before Harry can blow their cover. It wouldn't even be intentional — Louis knows Harry too well to think that — but the more Harry presses, the more likely he is to let something slip. And Louis can't allow that to happen.

He's got too much riding on being able to ride this one out.

~

The day Louis was told he was straight was the day he truly grew up.

Grant Malarkey’s expression had been as blank as a fresh sheet of plain paper, empty like he'd left his personality a step behind him along with Louis' naive joy of life. He'd sat behind his smarmy name plate in his top-floor office, and with a cruel indifference, explained all the reasons why Louis wasn’t to be gay, in any shape or form, for — at least — the foreseeable future, or — at most — life.

And Louis listened. Because in only a few minutes of knowing this man, there was no doubt in Louis' mind that he'd ditch them all in an instant if his upward struggle for money and power demanded it. 

The last of Louis' fight left him and he knew the world that was at his feet just hours ago was now on his back. Malarkey, who’d been scrutinising Louis closely from behind his heavy oak desk, hummed absently. His fear had gone as soon as he'd seen the shattered look in Louis' eyes and knew him to be completely alone. He’d rapped his knuckles on the desk with a sense of pleased finality and it sounded like a deal made.

So three years ago to the day, Louis had started adulthood and his 1D career with a helpless nod and a bitter taste in his mouth. It had put steel on his shoulders and grit in his gut, and he’d just wanted to make something of himself. For all of them to make it. If only for a while.

~

Louis is rummaging a little in what he assumes is Liam's spice rack while Harry stands a room away from him and waits. 

For what, Louis doesn't know. It’s setting him on edge actually, but he’s not about to apologise. There's no way he’ll hang his head and drag himself around like he's ashamed. That would be far too revealing. 

"Louis."

Louis bites his lip. For a second, he thinks that maybe there's still a way to get out of this conversation. But this isn’t Oz — he doesn’t get to have all the joys of the rainbow, follow the bricks till he's bored, and still get to fuck off back to safety when his heart's been hollowed out by primary colours and merry tunes. He doesn't get to heel-click back home.

"I think we should talk about last night," Harry says softly.

Just yesterday, Harry's voice was brighter, no need for soft and careful. Just yesterday, Louis had had his hands in Harry's curls and teased him about love songs. Not long after, he'd had his hands wrapped around a gold bar and Harry's dick driving in, in, _in_.

Louis has been trying so hard to forget that betrayed look on Harry's face, but he’s not a monster and he knows he hurt Harry last night. He just can’t work out how to lower his defences and keep his head above water. For someone that talks a lot, he’s never been very good at expressing himself. Not like Harry.

The kitchen’s dutiful silence is broken by an uncomfortable _squeaky creak_ as Louis absently twists the pepper grinder onto the worktop and hopes his frantic hands will hide the frantic rap of his heart. He doesn’t want Harry to think he’s losing it, not least because he suspects that maybe he actually is.

"Louis," Harry says again, voice harder, "stop."

Louis clears his throat. "Shh. I need complete focus when I'm seasoning."

"You know as well as I do that nobody wants you seasoning the omelette."

"Bloody charming. Too late now. Cinnamon should work, right?" Louis flicks his hand casually, "We can talk later."

"No to both of those things," Harry says briskly, crossing the space to seize the spice pot. As soon as it's in his hand, he seems to realise how close they are, but he doesn't move away. "We need to talk _now_. Why were you there last night?"

Louis' eyes fly up. The words hit a bit like an accusation. His head's a mess but what he does know is that while he may be mostly to blame for the mess they’ve landed themselves in, there was more than one dick involved last night, and he’s fed up of taking the fall when everything goes to shit. 

“You were there too, dickhead," he snaps.

Harry stands very still. He's wearing that tolerant look he does so well, the one that always dances on the fringes of Louis' patience. It's an unpalatable reminder of exactly how unreasonable Louis is being.

Scowling, Louis puts back some of the space between them before he's tempted to do something stupid like punch Harry in the face or kiss him. 

“You were there first," Harry counters evenly. "But we’re a bit old to play this game, Louis.”

Louis' temper snaps and the pepper grinder comes down on the counter with a sharp crack. So this new Harry, although sexier than Louis could possibly have imagined, is also a bit of a prick. Louis’ temper always has gone from cool to seething in seconds, and deep down he recognises that Harry's simply matching the tone Louis himself has set, but it's a far off bit of logic and way out of reach.

He plants his palms on the counter, anger sharpening his words like knives. “Oh, so you're going for condescending? Good to know. You want us to act like grown ups? Fine. Since adults are actually pretty fucking great at ignoring shit they don’t want to talk about, I'll be pleading amnesia and I'd recommend you do the same. We did it, we regret it, we go on as normal.”

Harry gives him a long, cool look. “I don’t regret it.”

Louis’ chest flutters and he hates himself. He’s old enough to know that blatant lies shouldn’t give him butterflies. “Urgh, Harry, shut up.”  
  


“Louis, don’t…" Harry sighs, and to Louis it almost looks like he's carrying the heavy weight of Louis' immaturity on his shoulders. "I'm not trying to be condescending, or awkward, I just…" Harry's eyes flick around like they're looking for the right words. "Things are different now. Don’t you see that?” 

“Well yes, Harold. We fucked. I expected a small impact to our day to day." 

Harry, for his part, doesn't appear particularly shocked that Louis is adopting this approach. His calm makes Louis want to draw blood in the same way Harry had by entering Louis’ life and not wanting to share it with him.

Harry’s beautiful face is calm and unaffected, and it hurts where Louis’ heart is thudding, but if he drops Harry's gaze then he might as well hold up a white flag right now. 

“So… that what you’re into then?" Louis goads viciously, "Nameless boys?”

Harry's eyes harden. “About as much as you’re into nameless cock up your arse, I'd guess.”

Louis chokes out a humourless laugh and shrugs. “And that’s that. We're both perverts. I don’t see why we have to talk about it.”

He finally lets himself look away, eyes wandering down to his feet. His socks are purple and fluffy, and they're actually Harry's.

“I wish you’d said something," Harry says quietly.

Louis almost laughs. Personally, he thinks all of this could have been avoided if only he’d kept his stupid mouth shut. He’s had good sex before without uttering a single sound. Why had this been any different? If he'd just kept quiet like he was supposed to, his secret would still be safe and last night would exist only as a treasured memory for Louis and a likely forgettable one for Harry. He'd remain the boy made of gold that had shivered and spread himself, bearing a passable ass and an abstract resemblance to someone Harry knew.

"When did you work it out?" Harry now asks quietly, all because Louis opened his fat mouth. "When did you know it was me?"

_Early enough_ , is all Louis can think. _Early enough that I could have stopped it before it really started_. He can't bear to say it though. He's too scared that Harry wishes he'd known from the minute he’d walked into that room so that he could have avoided the embarrassment and regret of fucking Louis in the first place.

Louis swallows a little, coughs on it. “I can't— I can't do this." He feels like Harry's cleavered open his skull and seen everything he wants to hide. Louis has always known that he’s pathetic. And now Harry knows it too.

He throws himself towards the door, coming up short when Harry gets there first.

“It wasn't your first time was it?” Harry asks, still blocking the way out. 

Planning to slip out under Harry's arm at the first opportunity, Louis is close enough to see what could be jealousy darkening Harry's eyes. It’s probably not. It’s probably just some proud sense of codependent possessiveness. 

"Why do you do it?"

“Stop it. Get out of my way."

“How many men have you had there?"

"Will you keep your voice down, for fucks sake Harry?!"

"I need to know—"

"Cut it out, alright!" Louis shouts, shoving ineffectually at Harry’s chest. "I like it and I won't apologise to you of all people, you fucking hypocrite. Happy to pay for it, aren't you? But then you look down on the ones that sell it.” Louis should shut up now. “Well, for your information, I love it so much I don't even _get_ paid.” But shutting up was never his forte. “I'm not ashamed. Sexually dissatisfied, thanks to your piss poor performance last night, but not ashamed."

Harry doesn't bite. His only response is a wry look, which is testament to his insane tolerance for Louis’ bullshit. Still, Louis gets the feeling he's counting to ten, very slowly. 

His voice when he speaks next is skirting around the edges of pleading. "It's not like that. I—I don't know why I need to know so bad but I do. Please tell me something."

"No,” Louis says lowly. He can’t give any more of himself up, and he’s got questions of his own. “How did you know about the club?"

Quiet. And the room is already too small for quiet.

"There you go then," Louis throws his hands up. "You won't tell me how, I won't tell you why. That leaves us with silence, Harry. It leaves us with nothing." 

Harry takes a step forward and flinches when Louis matches it with a step back. “You don’t have to go there again. You don’t need this," says the boy with the free spirit and an oyster of a world in front of him. 

Louis scoffs at Harry’s naivety but he feels like his heart’s been kicked in, and he’s thinking of Malarkey and sees every reason to panic piling one on top of the other then landing on top of him. He grips the edge of the counter, hard, and tries to slow the rapid rev of his heart. 

He glances over at Harry, a sideways, sliding look out of the corner of his eye.

And then... then Harry turns his trustworthy face to Louis, and lies. "It’s okay. I’ll make this okay again."

Louis sighs, exhausted. "Look, are we done here?"

Harry sighs back, thumbing one of his rings round and round in circles. It's a few long seconds before he answers a resigned, "Yes." His eyes are uncertain, so far from the two pools of determination he walked in with. 

It rips at Louis’ seams to hurt this boy. God, it kills him. But it's … it's for the best. It may break Harry's heart, but only for a while, and it's far better than letting Louis break his life. 

If only Louis loved him a little less, this next part could almost be easy. “Look, we've got this time off after today, and I need to…I think it would be best…" He takes a sharp breath. "Just lose my number for a bit, yeah?”

Harry's eyes are unwavering. He nods, but it doesn't look like he's agreeing, it looks like he's placating.

Louis has seen this exact gesture once before. He’d just had the joy of squidging Harry’s chubby sixteen-year-old cheeks in an XFactor toilet, had thanked him for the autograph and said that they’d probably never see each other again, what with Harry being destined to be a star and all that. Harry's nod had been mollifying then too. As though he had other plans.

That was back when they'd first met and Harry'd been the most attractive person Louis'd ever seen. Still is, in fact. Three years, dozens of countries, and hundreds of models later. How typical is that.

In Liam's kitchen, Harry seems to decide to bide his time and Louis realises that that's the best he's going to get. It'll have to do for both of them for now.

They breathe out together and a bit of the tension seeps out of the room.

Harry even smiles a tiny little bit. It's forced but at least he's trying. “I’m not a pervert.” 

Louis scoffs, but it’s not unkind. “I think you might be a bit of a pervert,” he ventures flatly. 

~

Tonight's gift is a vibrating plug with a rose quartz at its base. 

It had been waiting for him when he got home from Liam's and there's nothing like the prospect of another visit to the Guesthouse to recover his unfairly shit day. After his talk with Harry, he'd resolved not to let last night ruin this for him.

Louis doesn't wait to use the plug, to open himself up for it and, against his better judgement, imagine Harry's finger tapping the stone. With a shameful rush, his mind wanders to creamy skin and the laurel tattoos he likes to imagine pressing his thumbs into.

By the time he's at the Guesthouse and has been escorted to his room for the night, Louis is wound tighter than a spring.

“Send someone in, will you love?" he begs Lori through his phone after waiting, and waiting. "I’m crawling up the walls here.”

“You’re booked, babe. I can’t send anyone else in."

Louis flops back onto the chaise longue and grinds his ass down for a hit of relief. “He’s not gonna show, come on Lori.”

“You know the rules. He’s paid whether he turns up or not. You're his.”

“For how long?” Louis asks, hesitantly palming the heather coloured velvet.

Lori’s silence is telling.

“Lori!”

He hears her sigh. It doesn't sound like a happy one. “All night.”

_That’s not fair,_ he wants to say. "What about me?" he actually says, which sounds even more childish but he’s fucking incensed.

A thought skips around his head unprocessed until it clicks into place. 

"Lori?" he asks warily. "Who booked me?"

Lori's answer holds no surprises. Of fucking course.

"He was here last night wasn't he?" Lori surmises as Louis, fed up with waiting for nothing, emerges into the hallway where Lori waits for him with a vodka coke from the club bar.

Louis downs half the glass and sighs. "Yeah, he was here. Did you see him?"

"No," she replies, helping herself to the rest of the glass. "But Reuban did. Apparently, he asked lots of questions. Wanted to know that you guys could slip the knots if you needed to.” 

Louis rolled his eyes, conflictingly annoyed and endeared. "Of course he did."

"Sounds like a good one," she hedges with a raised eyebrow. "Aside from screwing you over tonight. For lack of a better phrase."

She grins and Louis purses his lips on a smile. "Har, har."

He may be able to spare a smile for Lori, but he's still seething. The sky is bruised pink and purple when he leaves the Guesthouse, early and unsatisfied and beyond pissed off. And he has Harry to thank for it.

He knows why Harry's done it. He was never any good at sharing. Louis' not even sure Harry knows what it feels like to really share. Not like Louis, who's had to perfect the art — because for Harry, they're queuing as far as the eye can see.

~

**Harry**

"Gods sake," Niall mutters, looking at Liam's door impatiently. "Where are they?"

Harry checks the street again. "I don't know but they better hurry up before Paul realises we've nicked his car."

Niall chuckles. "It's worth it."

"So," Harry clears his throat and leans against his side of the car. “What do you know about that mate of Louis’? Ryan, is it?” 

Niall, clearly aware that Harry knows that's not the right name, stops to chew on a handful of peanuts thoughtfully, eyes assessing. "Reuben," he corrects easily. “And not much, I guess. Why? What do _you_ know about him?"

Harry shrugs in some semblance of nonchalance. “He's a bit annoying. Posh. Has a tattoo that looks a bit like a penis.”

“Very insightful.”

Harry leans forward and drums the car roof with his palms. “And that's exactly my point,” he argues with Niall's indifferent expression. “We know nothing about him. He could be a stalker.” _Or a pimp._

“He doesn't need to stalk Louis," laughs Niall. "He spends plenty of time with the fella as it is.”

Harry grunts. “Maybe he's the hide-in-plain-sight type.”

“You just hate that you have to share Louis with him.” 

Harry’s frown is indignant. He's not jealous, it’s just that he misses every single slip of Louis' time that he loses. Always has. Admittedly, that does sound a bit like jealousy. “I can share," he insists pointlessly.

"Nah, not Louis. You and him have always been different and you treat him differently too." Niall slides his sunglasses up his head. "To be honest mate, you could get your cock out and it would be subtler. Might be a more effective approach, thinking about it."

_It isn't_ , Harry thinks. Well, he doesn't think, he _knows._ Maybe third time's a charm, but it seems unlikely.

The first time Louis saw more of him than he probably needed to see was around Christmas a couple of years after the band formed. 

Harry had woken up in a shared hotel room, unbearably horny, rocking down into the mattress and wincing when it squeaked in betrayal. His eyes shot to the other bed, but Louis was still. As quietly as he could, Harry turned onto his back, pulled up some porn on his phone and slowly, so slowly gripped his cock and stroked himself up and back, sighing softly under his breath as the coil of heat loosened and lit his nerves to the tips of his toes. 

It was good. He wished he could be louder and let loose and just go for it, but he didn’t want to wake Louis. Yeah, it wasn't ideal. And Louis seemed to agree because after a couple of minutes the duvet on the other bed was thrown down with an irritable huff.

Harry froze, muscles tense and eyes wide as he tried to make out Louis' silhouette in the dark, embarrassed that instead of feeling dizzying panic, his mind and body wanted to send him rushing headlong into an uncontrollable orgasm. 

"Never known anyone to have such a polite wank," Louis told Harry, voice sleep rough and fucking gorgeous as he started making a racket in his own bedside table

It's not the opening salvo Harry was expecting. He was thinking something more along the lines of a grumbled _Do you have to?_ or an angry _Do you know what time it is?_ Louis doesn't take too well to interrupted sleep and Harry was prepared to be bitched out for waking him up. And let's face it, Louis can bitch hard.

Instead the boy was tutting, "Come on, where is it?" and switching his lamp on.

The sudden light made Harry wince in mortification and whip his hand out from under the covers. "Shit, sorry." _Sorry?_

"Sorry?" Louis chuckles, a shade of mockery but a sunshine full of endearment.

His hair was lighter in the soft glow of the lamp, eyes drowsy and skin a bit flushed as he stood from his bed to hand Harry a bottle of lube. Harry wasn't so far gone that he didn't realise Louis could have just chucked the bottle over to him then fallen asleep with his back to Harry and a pillow over his head. 

"So polite," Louis whispers, looking down at Harry through strands of honey coloured fringe. "The so-called sex-crazed ladies' man."

Harry cleared his throat, heart working so hard. "Louis?"

Louis hovered next to Harry's bed, eyes on the tent in the sheets, eyes blown to such an extent that Harry thought Louis wouldn't mind too much if he started up his strokes again. In that moment, he could’ve sworn blind that Louis was ready to reach down to help him out, but as Harry's hand inched down to his aching dick, Louis seemed to shake himself awake.

"I'll, umm. I'm gonna take a shower. I'll give you the time it takes to sing Little Black Dress and a verse and a chorus of Up All Night and then I want to go back to sleep."

"Got it," Harry whispered back, more turned on than he'd ever been, and thought about calling Louis back, but for the first time he could remember, Louis' name caught in his throat, and then there was a room between them that may as well have been the width of a small continent, and Harry couldn’t have stared at the bathroom door any harder.

He came quickly after that. He could have told Louis he wouldn't need two and a half songs to do it. Not with the image of Louis' passing him lube with a question in his eyes. He'd spilt in his hand, a lubed finger barely circling his hole, to the thought of Louis' tanned back as he left, the delicious sweep of his neck, eyes bright in what had to be the best blue in the world, and the sound of his voice wrapped around the bridge of Little Black Dress.

"Feel better?" Louis had winked when he reappeared, towel low on his waist and water droplets travelling _quick quick slow_ down his chest to his tummy, leaving Harry feeling like he was trembling on the brink of madness.

Harry wonders now whether that one moment in 2012 was a pivot that set the benchmark for the rest of his and Louis' relationship. If he'd been braver, if Louis had been bolder, maybe things would have been different. But they weren't and they hadn't, and any other weighted moments after that seemed to come along with the same unspoken parameters. Look but don't touch. Touch but as friends. Friends and not lovers.

Still, Harry’s stomach flips at the memory. It’s the same tug of heat he always feels, ever since he watched a fruit pastel ice lolly slide so far down Louis' throat that Harry had been the one with brain freeze. It’s a very vivid memory. 

There’s another memory, less lust and more love, from the day Harry first saw him, eyes laughing then drifting to Harry with a carefree grin like dawn. The same smile that has made Harry's sky turn over ever since. Back then he’d been hit with such an insane need to be something to Louis. That if Louis didn’t like him he might sink out into the floor or, at the very least, be heartbroken enough to quit the show.

No, it didn’t take long for him to love Louis, with his heart-shaped scars and fiery soul. And while he was learning to love Louis, Louis was learning to lie to him. It’s as though he knew that one day they would crash like shipwrecks. And before long, this is where they ended up. 

Now Harry can spot when Louis is lying a mile off, like this morning when he'd lied with angry looks and caustic words, and Harry doesn’t feel as happy about this new found skill as he thought he might. 

There's no point going over it. He needs to have his wits about him for what comes next. Besides, Niall's still talking, which is par for the course but it'll only make things worse if Harry ignores him. 

"I mean, you have talked to him about it, right?"

"About what?"

Niall responds with an unimpressed look.

"In a roundabout way, I s'pose."

"Uh-huh. So, no then."

"I try, okay?" Harry implores. "But he changes the subject quicker than I can sign a bloody book cover. This is Louis. I mean, you see the problem here?” 

Niall keeps his eyes trained on Harry. “Yes, I see him." He kindly pauses to let his meaning sink in while Harry scowls at him. "Look, everyone knows you and Tommo will end up together."

“Don't call him that,” Harry says quickly, gruffly, channeling all his discomfort into the one thing he'd been wanting to say since they became One Direction. 

Niall’s eyes widen and he laughs in surprise. “What, ‘Tommo’? Everyone calls him that." He suddenly clicks his fingers and points at Harry over the bonnet triumphantly. "Oh, I _do_ know something about Reuben! He has a special edition Lambo.”

Harry flinches back, face scrunched up and shady. “I’m sorry, did you just kick me in the bollocks? Because it felt like you did.”

Harry's actual concern with Reuban is far more pressing than the car he drives. He'd been the first person Harry saw when he'd arrived at the Guesthouse last night, fret with excitement and nerves. The invitation had arrived not long before, a simple _You’re on the guest list_ that made his cheeks pink up with arousal and made it hard to play it cool with Louis' eyes on him.

Reuban was also the last person Harry saw before he left. He'd been in the process of putting a disgusting amount of money on the counter in front of him, feeling a bit like he was playing the part of someone who knew what they're doing.

Reuban gave him a dismissive look and returned the money. “You can’t come back here.”

“What do you mean?” Harry frowns, stomach knotting.

“You know him," explained Reuban, looking straight at him like he was being deliberately stupid. "It’s not allowed.”

Harry pursed his lips trying to think of how to sort this, and quickly. He wasn't sure how long he had before Louis left and he didn't think Louis would want to run into him. As he looked around hoping that inspiration would strike, his gaze hooked on one of the objects Reuban was sorting through. “What’s that?”

“A cock cage," answered Reuben steadily.

Harry did _not_ like the look of it.

"Shit, you look faint." Reuban said, alarmed but not exactly sympathetic. "I can’t work out if this is genuinely triggering for you or if you’re just vanilla.”

“It’s just… it looks painful.”

Reuban blinked slowly. “Vanilla.”

“Hey!” Harry pulls a face at him then looks back at the gleaming metal. “I mean... I don’t think it would fit.”

Reuban raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Standing a little straighter, Harry pushed the notes back towards him.

Reuban narrowed his eyes. “Now what are you doing?” 

“I won’t come back," Harry promises. "I just want to book him.”

"Why?"

Harry winced. “Umm… so that no-one else can?” He shuffled about, looking down at the watch he wasn't wearing. He really hated himself sometimes.

“That’s not okay either.”

“Yeah," he cleared his throat, steeled himself. "Well, which of the two is the closest to okay?”

Reuban picked up his pen, face set like he wanted to stab Harry in the eye with it. "You've given me too much anyway. Do they not have maths in the north?"

"It's for the whole week. Is it enough for that?"

Reuban shook his head despairingly. "Nothing will be enough when Louis gets wind of this."

  
Which was too close to entirely accurate for Harry’s liking. There's not enough money minted to appease Louis when he's fierce with anger. And it just goes to show that you don’t need to know Louis like Harry does, that is to say, inside and out, to know that he’s not the forgiving type. Louis will go absolutely wild when he finds out about this.

Reuban gives in just before Harry considers changing his mind. “Alright Cheshire, but if I end up taking a punch for this, I’ll introduce you with the cock cage."

In the rose dusk outside Liam’s house, Harry watches his bandmates tip into Paul’s SUV. All except Louis, who'll be at the Guesthouse, alone. Harry feels a very shameful sense of satisfaction in that, and an equally serious sense of guilt, and he has nobody to blame but himself. 

If he had any sense, he’d stop this, cancel that booking, spare Louis and spare himself. Last night meant something to him and nothing to Louis. But Harry just can’t bear the thought of anyone else's hands on him, not after he’d finally had the opportunity to watch him come apart in his own arms. 

Love’s not the same for everyone, Harry knows. He also knows that he loves Louis something fierce, and apparently that love will make him do things from time to time that will almost certainly earn him a bollocking. He's not even mad about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's confused by the British slang/British-isms, just let me know.


	4. Day two (part 2): Amber

Right now, what Louis wants above all else, is peace. But what Louis wants and what Louis gets are so far removed it's laughable.

And to think he was so happy to see Niall, hanging out the window of Paul's SUV with an obnoxious wink and a, "Hop in, gorgeous.” 

“Thanks, fuck-face," Louis grins as he launches himself into the back seat next to Liam. 

His smile slides straight off his face when he sees Harry in the driver's seat, eyes two chips of green in the rear view mirror. 

He'd been expecting Paul, which was a bit ridiculous because Paul's the least likely person to be driving his own car. He'd also rather naively hoped that when Harry hadn't turned up at the Guesthouse, despite booking Louis for the _whole night_ so nobody else could, that it was because he was in a hospital bed, fatally ill.

"Wait," Niall says suspiciously around the headrest of the seat in front. "Is that a McFlurry? Did you get any for us?”

Louis steels his voice, hopes it will hold the carefree tone he needs to show Harry that he doesn't give a shit. “No, I bloody well didn't. My sole purpose for going was to forget about this fucking band.” 

Liam grins, bright like a floodlight, then clears his throat. “We've been talking about orgies.”

Louis looks back at him with a pasted on smirk. “Didn't think we were that sort of band.”

“Well, I thought we weren't the sort of band to keep secrets," he replies quickly, "but it turns out Zayn’s taken part in an orgy and we're only now being told.”

"Taken part?" Louis echoes, unduly more delighted by the phrasing than the news itself.

“It was a threesome,” Zayn argues, tipping his head to the roof of the car with an exasperated groan.

Louis lets out a laugh. “A threesome isn't an orgy.”

Zayn sits up straight. “See!” he demands of everyone else. “What have I been saying?”

"Either way, it all sounds a bit like hard work to me." 

Only Liam.

"Aah, my sweet summer child,” Niall chirps fondly.

“No, really. How does anyone know who's meant to be doing what? Too confusing. Too many limbs.”

In the fraction of the second that follows, something kindles in Louis' brain, sparking then catching like a flame. “Better than no limbs," he proposes with a sharp look in the mirror. He waits for Harry's eyes to meet him there. "Better than being left high and dry with only your own hand for company.”

He feels like medusa and Harry is really bloody lucky that their eye contact is via a piece of reflective glass.

Harry's gaze flicks away and back to the road but Louis can see the clench of his jaw in the amber of the traffic light he doesn't slow down for. If anyone thinks he's being inordinately quiet, nobody's letting on.

"True," Niall supposes with a sage nod. "Anyway, what makes you the orgy expert?” 

Louis' responding smirk says _wouldn't you like to know?_ and Zayn, sensing the opportunity to divert attention from himself, laughs, "Yes, mate," and reaches over Liam's lap to backhand Louis in the stomach.

Louis looks at Liam's bemused face, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"No way," Liam all but gasps when it does. “You…? An orgy? When?”

Louis grins and pops his lips, avoids Harry's white knuckled grip on the steering wheel. "Which time?”

"No way. Really? I can’t believe you—"

"I'm beginning to take offence, Liam."

Harry abruptly turns the radio on and Louis couldn't stop the satisfaction from showing even if he wanted to. He doesn't spare a look to the front of the car, just settles back against the leather with a smile and finds a few shadows to wrap himself up in.

The DJ speaks over the first few notes of Gotta Be You before Zayn clocks it and chuckles wryly.

Niall pauses his own speculation about the potential benefit of two or more mouths, to squeal over Liam's opening line.

Real-time Liam loses his breath and flails his arms, "I _love_ ," gasp, "this," gasp, "band." 

Zayn hums his agreement. "I love that guy. The mysterious one. What's his name again? The one that can actually sing. You know, the really hot one."

"I'm sorry, mate," Niall sympathises, "but I heard Niall's not into guys." 

Zayn glares at the back of Niall's cackling head, and there's a genuine smile sliding onto Louis' lips as he listens to them joke. It feels good, reminds him that there's a lot about his life now that he treasures. They're not the things he's told he should love, the things he really ought to and would be disrespectful to people less fortunate if he didn't, but that doesn't matter for now.

He listens to his baby-self singing his heart out on the radio — the chorus, of course, because heaven forbid he be trusted with a solo — and he can't think of a single time he's ever looked at a girl and thought _it's gotta be you._

He snorts. He'd sung so many lies.

Back then he'd thought, like they all had, that they'd be washed up before they'd really started, before it mattered which team Louis batted for. They'd thought that they'd record a few hits, and then — several zeroes richer, freedom earnt and normality restored — they'd be back to wondering how the hell they were going to make a living once the dream was all over.

Turns out, they'd had no idea how enduring their phenomena would prove to be. 

Now they trade in screams and lies. It's there, evidenced in the voices singing into his ears, loudly, even when he sticks his arm over the speaker closest to him.

They sound like Malarkey, and they tell him that the closet door is closed on him. And so is Harry’s heart.

~

They end up at McDonalds for the McFlurrys Louis didn't buy everyone. 

Liam remembers he owes Harry an apple pie so Harry has no need to get out of the car, which gives Louis every reason to do just that. He'll force feed himself all the ice cream forevermore if it means avoiding an awkward chat alone with Harry. 

He couldn't do it — not two awkward moments with him in as many days, not when he can’t remember there ever being a third. He would never have guessed this, back when they were as close as close could be and would cuddle even closer. Harry would look up at him, coltish, the Cheshire boy with the Cheshire Cat smile, and Louis' dick would twitch, and Harry would pretend not to notice.

Trying to suppress the memory is a tap out from the get go. And the plug is singing inside him even without the vibrations on.

When Louis blinks to, back in the car with Zayn at his side now and Niall on the far side, the blond is grinning — a wide relishing sign of danger. 

"Hard on," he announces, leg stretching out across Zayn to prod none too gently at the crease of Louis' thigh, right next to his dick. This band has no boundaries. "Hard on, right… there." Louis only just grabs Niall's foot on its jump two inches to the right.

"It's not," Louis insists.

It is though, even if it’s just a semi, and he looks around for a way to change the subject.

"It's clear, Harry," he instructs, flinging his arm in the general direction of the road ahead. "You can go." 

Harry cuts his eyes to the mirror. "Yes Louis, I know how to work a roundabout."

Louis has to bite back a genuine grin of delight despite how good it feels to be angry. Needling out Harry's sass is one of his favourite pastimes.

“You’re a bundle of bloody laughs tonight,” Zayn tells Harry, not unkindly.

“Tired, that’s all.”

Louis watches Zayn turn to Harry, concerned. Louis' not surprised. There's more to Harry's tone than fatigue. 

“Sure?" Zayn checks. The red and orange glow of the streetlights sharpen his features, and not for the first time, Louis thinks that his own sense of self-worth would be significantly greater if Zayn weren't so other-worldly beautiful. "Still okay to drop me and Niall at The Six Chestnuts?”

Harry nods with a tiny smile.

“I’ll get out there and walk," Liam says. "It’s only round the corner.”

Louis sits straighter, because that would leave the occupants of the car down to two. And there be dragons. "Drop me there too," he says, a bit more urgently than he'd have liked. "I’ll stay at yours Z, yeah?"

"No way. I've got company." 

Louis' too wired to notice the way Zayn looks shifty all of a sudden.

“I’ll take you home, Louis,” Harry says quietly. “It’s fine.” His eyes are trained on the road so Louis pretends he hasn't heard.

The night-dark window throws his carefully indifferent reflection back in his face, like it knows he's a coward. It's right, he is, and the second Harry pulls up outside the pub, he's shoving the door open and jumping out with the others.

Liam's halfway out the door, when he stops. "Wait, we haven't sorted out what's happening with the studio next week."

"Don't look at me," Niall says with his hands in the air. "I thought Louis and Harry were meant to be planning this earlier."

"Harry," Liam admonishes. Louis can't see his eyes, but he can very well imagine the rather unnecessary level of disappointment he's levelling at Harry right now. Louis doesn't bother being annoyed that Liam thought so little of _him_ that he's not being chastised too.

In the space and breaths between the driver's seat and the night outside the passenger door, Louis can feel Harry bristle. "Why are you having a go at me?" he demands. “It's not my fault Louis' really bad at making plans."

Louis grits his teeth and glares at him over Liam's shoulder. “It's not my fault you're really bad at keeping them,” he hisses back.

Ideally, he'd play that off as a joke. But nobody is laughing. Not even Niall, who hardly stops laughing to breathe.

Unfortunately, the by-product of, once again, not thinking before he opens his gob is that the words are venomous, like they’ve been waiting on the tip of his tongue ready to strike given half the chance.

"What's going on?" Liam asks, glancing consideringly between the two of them. "You've been at each other's throats all day."

Harry remains faithful to his silence, leaving Louis to create a half-arsed lie. "Harry bitched at me when I put too much salt in the omelette, and now I hate him."

"We did tell you," Niall reminds Harry.

"The omelette was fine," Zayn mediates suspiciously.

Louis glares over at Harry. _Your turn._

Harry blinks. "I knew it was a risk so I made a back up."

"Fucker," Louis mutters under his breath, then sensing Liam's about to say something sensible about how he didn’t have enough eggs for that, says, "Right, well I'll be seeing you lads."

"Wait up, Lou," Niall calls to him as Zayn and Liam start walking towards the neon pub lights. “Liam’s right. You’re acting really weird.”

Louis doesn’t answer because he can’t disagree.

Niall sighs. “Look, just let him take ya home," he says in a hushed voice. "He'll be upset if you don’t."

"I'm sure he'll bounce back," Louis predicts dryly.

"Come on, mate."

"Fine," Louis agrees, but only because Niall’s looking at him very strangely.

Louis turns back to the car and to Harry. He's been angered into a small corner of his brain that deals only with fight or flight and he just wants to get this over with. To go home, dial up the vibrate function on his plug, and come in his fist.

The anger and vodka coke must be fueling him with courage because he heads straight for the front passenger seat. It means that the hand Harry’s resting on the gear stick is less than a foot away from Louis’ thigh. 

They keep quiet as Harry pulls away, Louis waiting irritably to see if an apology is forthcoming, but he doesn’t have the patience to wait all night so he figures he’ll needle it out of Harry by being a twat instead. 

He nods towards the road. "The red BMW's joining this lane." 

"Yes, Louis," Harry grinds out through his teeth. "I’m familiar with roundabouts and believe it or not, I understand indicators as well." 

Louis turns before Harry can see an uncontrollable smile hijack his face. Harry could easily match him in a war of words, but like now, he only ever hints at it. Those little hits of saltiness, however, always make Louis’ heart light.

Harry’s eyes flick down to Louis lap but not necessarily for the reason Louis would like. "Put your seatbelt on."

“Nope,” Louis sings happily. “So... want to know what you missed?

He wants to kick himself, knock his head against the dash. Maybe fling himself into the Thames. _You just can’t let anything go, can you?_

Harry throws his bandana on the rear seat, sliding his eyes to Louis just long enough to show that he's heard but that he has no intention of answering. 

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Sure you don’t want to know?”

“No.”

Louis smiles. They’ve played the game of opposites before and tiredness has made Harry transparent. 

"Well, _I_ want you to know what you missed,” he says, voice lowering. “Waited for you, didn’t I? Got myself ready for you.”

Harry tenses then quickly leans across Louis’ lap to pull the belt around him and snap it home. “We’re almost at yours,” he informs Louis calmly, like Louis' fingers aren’t creeping up the inseam of his own joggers, abdomen tightening at the first promise of pleasure.

“All slicked up and plugged open for you,” Louis says, turning his head on the rest so he can watch Harry’s profile, witness the way he clenches his jaw. “You wouldn't have even had to hesitate.”

Harry tightens his grip, the sound of tarmac a rumble underneath their feet. "Can you stop?"

"Would it make you feel more comfortable?"

"Yes."

"Then no,” Louis breathes out, hand fishing the wireless plug remote out of his pocket and clicking it to the first setting.

Harry’s eyes are fixed on the remote. Louis can tell because the next second Harry has to flick the wheel to the right to keep them from swerving off the road. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

Louis smirks, vindicated. Then clicks to the next setting, unable and unwilling to hold back a breathy moan.

What started as simply a way to wind Harry up has also succeeded in getting Louis hot and bothered. The plug has something to do with it, and so do the words rolling off his tongue, but it also has to do with Harry. Even Louis' anger has twisted into lust in the face of Harry’s tension and desperate looks. His eyes keep snapping from the road to Louis’ hands on his groin, the road to Louis’ spine arching in his seat, and it stokes the hot coil of lust in Louis’ belly.

“Louis,” Harry says, voice sliding into something lower, darker and more heated. 

Louis shudders at his own name on those lips, the gravelly sound that betrays Harry’s want, and shamelessly grinds down into the seat, rubbing the plug up against his spot, hissing in a breath.

"Stop it.” Something in Harry seems to snap and one of his hands jumps to the bulge in his jeans, squeezing harshly. “Do you want me to crash? Are you even listening?"

"Hanging on every word.” Louis grins wickedly when he sees Harry's hand move back up to throttle the steering wheel.

As if to show Harry how liberating it is not to have to drive, Louis’ hand rests lightly over his own crotch, thumb running up and down the line of his hard cock, the other hand holding the remote, fingers hovering near the button. He doesn’t know who he’s teasing more right now.

Harry brings the car to a stop in front of Louis’ flat. Neither of them make any move to get out.

“Thought you regretted last night,” Harry recalls, hooded eyes flicking over Louis’ body.

Louis’ smile is slow and dirty. “Teaching you a lesson, aren’t I?” 

What lesson, Louis has no clue, but he’d put money on the fact that Harry won’t call him out on it. He hears Harry’s breathing go shallow, watches his eyes glazing over and settling on the outline of Louis’ dick. Yes, Louis would bet a great deal of money on it.

He rocks unconsciously in his seat, meeting Harry’s eyes, clammy hands gripping the black strap of the seat belt where it wraps across his chest.

Louis can hear Harry swallow. “Can I…?”

"No,” Louis says quickly, breath coming now in little pants. “This isn't yours. You missed your chance and now you're going to be the one to sit and wait."

Harry’s handsome face turns sulky and dark as he brings his hand back from that halfway place between their thighs, and it’s so sexy. 

Louis flips the remote to its third and final setting and his eyes slide out of focus, hand gripping and releasing the seat belt to keep from darting across the barely there gap and palming Harry’s cock. 

“You don't get to call the shots when you ruined my night, you fucking no-show."

Of course, the words would have more impact if Louis weren't staring at the hard ridge in Harry's skinny jeans. When he looks up, it's to find a pair of eyes already on him.

“You wanted me there?" Harry asks, surprised.

Louis lets out a loud crack of laughter and there's not a single trace of humour in it. It could mean _Obviously yes_ but it could equally mean _Of course not_ and that in itself is a serious masterstroke of genius on Louis' part, even if he's the only one that thinks so. 

"I wanted _someone_ there."

Shaking his head absently, Harry makes a frustrated sound. “I umm. I don't want you… being… with any of those others.”

"Yes well, fortunately I don't give a flying fuck what you want or don’t want." He bites his lip and looks up at Harry. “Unless we want the same thing. I think right now we just might want the same thing, don't you?"

Harry whines. He looks like he’s teetering on the edge already, and _that_ will never fail to get Louis hot. He has to look away for a moment, to get a hold of himself, but the memory of Harry at the house party, wrecked and coming in his pants, is so close to what he’s seeing now. 

Louis lifts his gaze from the cats' eyes on the road in time to see Harry’s hand slink into his underwear. His t-shirt is baggy and keeps him covered as he releases his dick and jerks his wrist a couple of times quick before pausing and gulping in a breath.

Louis can see his hand move, thump up against the cotton with each stroke, can make out the shape of him underneath. He wants to lift the t-shirt away, scoop Harry’s dick up into his palm, or straight into his mouth.

_Jesus_. “Yeah,” Louis sighs, depressing the button on the seatbelt, shifting forward so he can reach a hand behind himself.

It’s pitch outside. Anyone could be watching. And Harry looks so wrecked. Eyes shining black and skin flushed, moan too loud for the confines of the car. His red lips parted, swollen and spit slick, hand moving slowly over himself, twisting at the head. Louis didn’t see it last night and he so badly wants to see it now, but he doesn’t trust his voice when he’s this far gone to ask Harry to draw it out from under the material.

Shoving his hand in the back of his boxers, Louis feels for the base of the plug, teasing at it and angling it in all the right ways. He bites his lip, feels the familiar pull, the tightening of his muscles, and the world’s edges sharpen then blur as he comes suddenly with a gasp and shiver.

Through the haze, he catches Harry’s hand work quicker, teeth digging into his lower lip. His eyes are very dark just before he tips his head back and comes.

Louis becomes slowly aware of the wet smudge on his joggers, a darker patch of grey. Harry’s hand reappears from under his t-shirt, wet and messy before he wipes it off on his shirt and quickly scans the car's upholstery.

“Paul’s going to kill me,” he mutters.

Louis chuckles hesitantly, waiting for Harry to meet his gaze in an unspoken almost-truce. He gets a slow conspiratorial smile. “How will he know?”

Harry huffs a laugh. “Paul will know.”

Louis hums noncommittally, wriggling against the sticky feeling in his boxers.

Harry looks like he wants to apologise but something is holding him back, and Louis can't help wondering what that might mean to him personally. He's lax and loose so he let's it go in favour of watching Harry's post coital come down.

Inside, Louis' a bit trippy on the sheer realisation that he got to watch this boy come for a third time. They may hate each other a little bit right now but 18 year old Louis is beside himself and swooning.

In spite of the fact he can never have him, Louis remembers that he loves this boy. He's been hard on him, he knows. Sometimes he forgets the things that have been hard won for Harry and focuses on all the things that seem to have come so easy to him. It doesn’t help that Louis has always been easy when it comes to Harry.

None of it excuses the way they've been treating each other, least of all Harry's stunt this evening.

When he's confident that his voice is steady enough, Louis opens the car door, and though he's not sure he's really given Harry incentive to obey him, says, “Get over yourself. Either have the decency to show up or let someone else have a go." 

As he walks away, Louis can't help feeling that Harry isn't really listening.


	5. Day three: Coal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey :) I hated this chapter for a while, had a rethink and a bit of a rewrite, and now I think I'm happy with it. Would love to hear what you think.

Tonight's gift is a sin black blindfold.

Louis bites his lip as he flicks the embossed card out of the box and out of the way so he can feel the velvet in his hands.

It loops around his hand like a new tattoo and it’s soft under his fingers. He wants Harry's touch like he wouldn't allow either of them yesterday, wants it more than he ever has. Without his eyes, he knows his other senses will be heightened and it's a fantasy he's paired with Harry more times than he'd care to admit. He wants it so badly, he aches with it.

The actuality all relies very heavily on Harry, of course. If he listens to Louis' parting words from last night, he'll either show up or he'll bow out. Louis hopes for the former but will settle for the latter. Now that he's had Harry, still a bit unbelievable that one, he doesn't really want another. But he’ll always want what the Guesthouse gives, with Harry or without. He needs that feeling of value and freedom, and the knowledge that when he's there, his mind won't chatter. 

Without a doubt, Louis will be at the Guesthouse tonight. 

Harry, though, is another matter. 

Louis knows what he wants his night to look like, and he’s counting on Harry's jealousy to drive him right to the Guesthouse door.

~

The afternoon that Louis had been held back by management, Niall had been right: they'd been after Louis, and Louis alone.

None of the other band members would have done, because of course, none of the other band members would have let themselves spiral into self-destruction then flirted with a male interviewer when they were supposed to be straight.

The resulting meeting was the reason Louis had been so delighted to find beer in his fridge and curls in his lap. It seems like a lifetime ago that Louis had sat on his sofa, feeling the heat of Harry’s shoulder against his leg as he flicked CVs about the floor. 

And even longer ago that Malarkey had asked, “How are you?” with a hard smile and only the casual curiosity of a man that would make his money and continue his life unphased whatever the answer might turn out to be.

“It was hardly flirting," Louis had defended, predicting where the meeting was going.

Without missing a beat, Malarkey was ready to correct him. “It was, actually. And obviously that isn’t acceptable.”

“Obviously,” Louis rolled his eyes, regretting it even as he was doing it.

Malarkey glared. “I want to know what you’re doing to fix this.”

Louis straightened his spine and sucked in a breath. “I want new management.”

“Good idea,” Grant responded agreeably, turning back to his laptop.

Louis stiffened uncomfortably.

“Get new management,” Grant nodded. “One of those new agencies in Brighton, the modern kind that will flatter you and tell you that you're perfectly fine the way you are. You’ll be friends and they’ll counsel you to come clean.” 

The way he’d said ‘come clean’ but meant 'come out' made Louis feel dirty and cheap, which he suspected was probably the aim.

"But I'd advise against it. You’re young and wealthy, and you’d know better than anyone about the chip people bear on their shoulders for rich people. No-one feels sorry for the prom queen.” He looked up. “Remember, I’m on your side, Louis.”

Louis looked down. “I umm… took her out for dinner. The paps got some pictures.”

Malarkey nodded absently. Then they watched each other in silence, the two of them caught in a web of their own making.

In the end, it was Malarkey that broke the silence. “If you’re waiting for me to tell you well done, I’d remind you that praise is for people who do their jobs properly in the first place."

Louis found the inside of his cheek with his teeth and bit so hard he tasted iron. The pain gave him his voice back. “I can’t just take her out every time things go slightly off script. It’s too obvious and I bloody hate it. There’s got to be another way.”

“I don’t care for your thoughts on the matter,” Malarkey said, which was weird because Louis seemed to remember that 40 seconds earlier, he was on Louis' side.

“You’re rich and famous,” Malarkey repeated, mind already on someone, something, else. “And so are your friends. I made it that way. You have everything you wanted, now stop whining at me.”

Louis stitched his lips tight together, trusting only the slightest nod of the head. His eyes burned but he blinked the sting away. After all, he had no reason to cry.

"You had a bad day. We'll leave it at that."

~

The thing is, Louis is having a week of bad days. 

The culmination of the many things that Harry’s fucked up in the last 48 hours is the utter ruin of Louis’ favourite week of the year.

Louis remembers being _very_ specific last night. It was a put up or shut up kind of deal. But Harry wasn't there at the Guesthouse to fuck him, and neither was anyone else. Harry can be such a wanker sometimes.

Louis is heading home on foot, alternating between hating Harry and hating him more, with a half formed plan to crack out his favourite vibe and have angry sex with himself, when he suddenly pauses and hairpins back the way he'd come.

This is another of those magnificently bad ideas, and he needs someone to enable him. As in all situations like this, he calls Zayn. Maybe it's because Zayn laughs Louis’ laugh and pushes back when Louis gets too much. Or maybe it's because Zayn sometimes wears a look on his face that says he’s been around a bit and doesn’t much like what he's seen.

Calling him means Louis will have to turn his phone on, which is something he'd promised himself he wouldn't do today, but needs must. 

As soon as the screen lights up, the speakers chime cheerfully to signal a string of unread texts from Harry.

**10.09** Don't go tonight Lou

**13.28** Come to mine instead

**18.01** Louis. Answer me

**18.02** pls

Louis scowls at his phone, tells it to piss off, and speed dials Zayn.

"Tell me that I'm right," he demands as soon as the call connects.

There's a pause on the line. "I'm starting to worry, Louis."

"Five seconds in," Louis grins despite himself. "That has to be a record."

"It's not," Zayn tells him factually. "What's going on?"

"You get a brief summary but no details," Louis says, voice clipped but he knows Zayn will hear the plea. He waits for Zayn to acknowledge him before taking a quick breath. "I'm in love with an insufferable twat and I'm having a really shit time of it. I was fine, then the dementors came, and none of it's your fault or your responsibility, I know, but… I just needed a chat, that's all." He pauses, keeping step and watching the pavement disappear underneath his Converse. "I'm still mostly fine."

"Do you want to come to mine for a bit?" Zayn asks, noticeably more relaxed now he knows Louis isn't bleeding out in a gutter somewhere.

Louis sighs out. "No. I want your permission to make him pay. Please refer back to the 'insufferable twat' bit from earlier."

"Lou," Zayn speaks calmly. "This guy has clearly pissed you off but maybe it would be better if you left it for tonight. Just, you know, leave it be for now, mate."

“And be in breach of Louis Tomlinson brand guidelines?” He _pffts_. "So tell me I'm right. Come on. Positive reinforcement is key here."

Zayn snickers quietly. He can probably tell that the tightness in Louis' chest has eased, that a quick chat always makes things a bit better. "I don't really know enough to make a judgement."

"Nuh-uh, we'll come to problems later."

He can picture Zayn’s smirk. "But I've come to one right now."

"Fine, you're a rubbish friend. Distract me, then." Louis can feel a smile curl his lips even as he draws closer to Harry's road. "Distract me from the fact I'm doing something I shouldn't."

"Louis," Zayn groans. "Okay, fine. Umm… well. Did I tell you that I'm gay now?"

“‘Now’?" Louis sputters. "Like, you're newly qualified? That Open University must be really branching out."

“Not what I meant," Zayn laughs. Louis can picture the exact laugh. It's the one with the bright eyes. It’s one of his best, and it’s real. "I meant that I've now realised that I'm probably gay."

“Well shit, Zayn. You could have told me. If I’d fallen in love with you, I’d be in a hell of a lot less pain right now.” 

“In less pain,” Zayn agrees, "but less in love too, I reckon.” 

Louis' face scrunches up. “Hmm.”

“What were you up to last night?" Zayn probes. "After we left the car. Your phone was off."

"Stalker. What were _you_ up to last night?”

He can almost hear Zayn shrug. “Liam.”

“Liam?!”

“Yes.”

"No, I mean, _our_ Liam?"

"Still yes."

"I said LIAM. Are you saying you had sex with Liam? Zayn! Can you hear me?”

“It’s impossible not to, Louis. You’re voice is shrill as shit right now.”

Louis shuts up for a bit. Long enough to realise that he's not all that surprised after all. "Is he… did he… err… consent?”

“What?!” Zayn yelps. “Yes of course he did. What's wrong with you?!"

"You can't just throw something like that at me and expect me not to be accidentally offensive!" Louis defends. "I'm a bit bloody thrown if I'm honest. So, okay, how was it? Was he bossy?"

"Umm… no?"

"I always thought he'd be bossy in bed. Like, he’s always so uptight. Strict.”

“With you around," Zayn sighs, "someone has to be.” 

~

Harry's London flat isn't far. It's also unlocked.

As he stares into Harry's living room slash kitchen slash who the fuck knows what, most of the zen Zayn has instilled in him through his incredibly well judged distraction, vanishes. It's a bit like the layer of calm is an invisible gas and the sight of Harry bent over a notebook scribbling songs that are probably about someone other than Louis, is the spark that ignites it into flames.

"Nice try," Louis snarls, slamming the door closed behind him.

Harry's eyes dart up. "What?" It’s barely more than a whisper, caught out and a bit contrite, and maybe a hint of genuine confusion.

There's a smudge of wine on his lips, a glossy burgundy that strikes Louis as inconveniently irresistible. It does nothing to improve Louis’ mood.

"You _know_ what," Louis grinds out. "You cockblocked me. _Again_." It feels like his anger is scorching him from the inside, but he holds it down, holds it back long enough to say, "Well, you tried," and demonstratively slumps back against the door like he's never been so fucking satisfied. 

He doesn't feel the least bit guilty. After all, Harry's the one messing with his head and turnabout is fair play.

On the other side of the worn coffee table, Harry is watching Louis like he can read the lie right off his face. It won't matter though, Louis knows. If Harry has even the slightest propensity to be jealous over Louis then the mere possibility that Louis has been touched by someone else will consume him.

Sure enough, in the flash of a second, Harry's face goes from stoic to violently jealous, looking at Louis all over again for the evidence he doesn't want to see. But he will. Louis looks freshly fucked and he's just got to hope that Harry will never realise the lengths he's gone to in order to make it appear that way. The minutes he's spent in Harry's hallway, ripping at his hair like someone else's hands had been there, pinching his neck love-bite red and nipping at his lips until they reached that perfect shade of just used.

Harry looks like thunder and its maybe the hottest fucking thing Louis' ever seen. 

Outwardly, he's content and smug, but under the surface he knows that something is dark and twisted in this tale and he's genuinely worried it might be him.

"I text you," Harry says, standing up like he can’t sit still. "You never listen to me."

"Well maybe you should stop trying and failing to screw up my sex life and just book someone else."

Harry closes his eyes slowly and when he opens them again he's looking the other way. "Maybe I already have."

Louis rocks back a bit, stung. Even the chance that Harry’s lying isn’t enough to soften the blow of the _but what if he has?_ that hurtles round his head. Hurt doesn't describe the sharp crush that makes him want to run into a corner to sulk over his wounded pride. _Hurt_ barely scratches the surface, but the last thing he wants is his emotions out in the world where he can't claw them back. Or worse, where they'll be used against him. Rationally, Louis knows Harry wouldn't do that, but his hindbrain doesn’t trust anyone at the moment.

"Good," Louis clips. His voice is sharp and the ice chips in his eyes chill the air between them. "Might even get lucky and find someone who likes their sex as dull as you do."

Harry's jaw ticks and his fingers curl into reflexive fists. Clearly, the only thing stopping him from telling Louis to _get fucked_ is the irony of it.

“I should probably shower,” Louis supposes, eyes coy, words light when they're anything but. And if Harry's imagining come slick thighs, all the better.

Harry's eyes flicker to the floor, the point at which their shadows meet on the ash coloured carpet, then back to his notebook. "Guess you better had.”

The anger Louis' been caging is crawling up his throat, baited by the casual way Harry looks away and the hard lines of his empty expression, like he's… indifferent. After everything that's happened.

Louis feels like the rage and the hurt and the anxiety will bury him if he doesn't outrun them. It takes all he's got to smile like he couldn't care less before he pivots around to leave.

He doesn't get far before Harry is shouting after him. "God Louis, you always do this!"

"What?!" Louis flies back around. "What do I always do? Because as far as I can tell, _you_ did this!"

"Right, so it's all my fault," Harry laughs, cold and cross. Maybe he's not so indifferent after all, but Louis is too incensed to care. "That's so typical, Louis. What about when you chucked me out of the room at the club? I wanted to talk about it. I _needed_ to talk about it.” 

The air that Louis can’t get into his lungs presses down on his chest instead.

When he says nothing, Harry frowns. “I’m really trying but you want to run away. Whenever things get difficult, you always take the easy way out."

Louis growls, goes at Harry like a hurricane because he has no fucking right to pick Louis apart right now. "I got easy tonight, didn't I?" he baits, pushing at Harry's chest until his legs hit the table. "Got easy handed to me on a fucking plate." 

Harry grunts, his face set in a sort of angry martyrdom. “So anyone will do, huh?"

"Fuck you, Harry," Louis chokes out, backing up so he doesn't have to be so close to those disappointed eyes. "Since when do you get to have a say in my sex life?" 

"I don’t know, Louis…. maybe somewhere between me fucking you in a sex club and you rubbing one out in the car next to me!"

"You fucking wanker,” Louis shakes his head, tears kaleidescoping his vision. “That makes you no different to all the others."

Harry stares at him, long and hard like he's trying to find the man Louis used to be. Well good fucking luck.

"I can’t…” Harry turns away, the line of his shoulders defeated, voice pitched low and dangerously even. “You're acting like a brat. I can't talk to you when you're like this."

The words strike like a slap in the air. Even Harry turns back around with wide eyes like he’s surprised himself. 

Louis freezes and it’s only now that he realises he’d been restlessly shifting on his feet.

If this is all they are from now on, tussling back and forth, prodding and biting and fighting and hoping that one day they’ll break even, then Louis wonders if they should just call quits on their friendship, relationship, whatever it is they have, right now. That they should take stock, calculate their losses, and just _stop_. 

But Louis knows they’ll never give up on each other, and although it'll only set him back, Louis' voice gets quiet and rough and won't be stopped. "You're the _only_ one that can talk to me when I'm like this." 

He hears the echo of emptiness in the catch of his voice. There's not a chance Harry won't. Sure enough, Harry’s whole body slows to a stop and Louis can see his face drain a little of its pearly white and rose complexion. His mouth opens unspeaking, his eyes shine a little glossier. The moment feels significant somehow.

Louis fills his lungs. "You booked me." He throws the blindfold at Harry’s face, doesn't even have the energy to hate the way he catches it. "You booked me," he repeats, voice rising. "And you didn't turn up. I told you never to do that again."

"I thought you were coming here!" Harry yells, voice cracking and strained. "I asked you to come here instead of the club because I— I didn't think they'd let me in again." He takes a deep breath. "I left the door open for you and when you didn’t show, I tried your phone but it went to voicemail. And I thought about going there to wait but... I didn't know if you were really there, or if you’d been there and left and were maybe heading here. I…” he trails off and when he speaks again, it sounds a bit like he wishes they could start all over. “I thought we'd be okay today."

Louis blinks. That’s a lot of words for Harry. And quickly. The surprise of it diffuses some of his anger while he takes time to decode it all. When the meaning starts to compute, his eyes flick back over to Harry and he takes a good long look. He knows Harry’s beautiful face, in the dark and with his back turned, and there’s nothing there to indicate he’s lying.

Louis makes a noise in the back of his throat. They've made more progress in the last minute than they have since all this began, with a little white card and a mask, and the circle of Harry's arms as he’d snapped his hips. Or even further back, when Louis took the piss out of Harry's perfect day in an interview because he wanted it to be _theirs_. 

He’s thinking of an audition in Manchester, another in Marbella, a bungalow in Holmes Chapel and an apartment in Princess Park, a whole world tour full of countries, and every other place and time since then when they only ever knew each other as friends. How things change.

_Why does everything have to be so messy?_

"An unanswered invitation doesn’t mean 'yes'. If I ignore your texts it normally means I'm… you know, ignoring you. I thought you'd be at the Guesthouse. And the worst part is that you booked me even after last night, after I asked you not to."

"No," Harry says, his big eyes earnest and determined. "I swear I didn't. That first night, I booked for the whole week. I, fuck, Louis, I should have told you.” 

"You didn't make the booking today?"

Harry shakes his head.

That confession eases something in Louis' chest. Something that has been making him think that maybe he didn’t know Harry at all. His gorgeous boy. And he feels less nauseous without that thought maggoting away at his heart.

He’s so relieved to have it confirmed that Harry's not actually the worst kind of prick imaginable, that he’s not prepared when Harry moves to hug him and he instinctively flinches to the side and away. 

Harry’s eyes very quickly show the bruise of that hurt, but bless him, he nods. That same accommodating, compliant nod from their talk at Liam’s yesterday, the same appeasing nod from their first conversation.

Harry trusted him tonight and Louis has been nothing but a dick to him. Louis takes a few seconds to wonder if _he's_ the worst kind of prick imaginable, and then for the first time in too long, he thumbs a few bricks out of his walls and trusts Harry too. “Sorry, but I— I needed you, Harry.”

And Harry, he just— 

He cups Louis' face and kisses him, and Louis doesn't do a damn thing to stop him.

In fact, he reaches up between them to grab Harry by the collar, grips tight so Harry can’t leave him, and makes the softest, smallest noise against his mouth. He kisses hungrily, lets Harry crowd him against the door with a rush of stumbling footsteps and a thud on impact.

_Louis and Harry._ He's always loved that together they're somehow a hundred miles an hour and rush hour slow. This is no different, and it’s partly because Harry kisses like he does everything else — naturally, wholeheartedly, and incredibly well. And to Louis’ relief, he kisses like he’ll never stop. 

Big hands tremble on Louis’ cheeks as they share short snappy kisses that ignite longer, deeper ones, and Louis’ fingers scrabble their way to bury themselves in Harry’s hair, tugging a little and then harder when Harry moans. The sound sends little shocks through him, fires him up, and he licks into Harry’s mouth, wet and hot and open, until all he can hear is the slick sound of their lips, and the muffled moans they pant into each others' mouths.

It seems crazy to him that after everything that's happened between them this week, this is the first kiss they've shared. They've done everything backwards and even now, things aren't clear and right between them, but where Louis’ doubts talk reason in indoor voices, his lust screams like a sold out stadium, and he's been aching for this so much it feels like the air is shaking against his skin.

Harry still has the blindfold in his hand, Louis can feel the velvety soft brush of it against his skin as Harry curls his fingers around his wrists and rubs up his arms in one smooth movement until he's cradling Louis' neck. As he goes, his palms caress the ink of the heart and the stag, the match, the web, the compass, the dagger, and all of Louis' other life stories.

Then the touch moves to burn a hot trail down the centre of his chest, Louis can feel it through cotton, and then Harry's thumbing the hem and slipping underneath and Louis’ stomach shudders under his palm.

A little lower, Louis' cock throbs. The sweet shock of lust makes him roll forwards so Harry can feel him, hard and needy against his thigh.

Instantly, Harry shifts slightly, adjusts Louis' hips to line them up, to grind down. It feels so good that Louis can’t help digging his fingertips into Harry's shoulders and biting into the meat of his ear.

Under Harry's choked off moan, Louis can hear the rough catch of their clothes as they rub against each other, pressing as close as they possibly can, and then a bit closer just to be sure, and he hears the little sorrys Harry is pressing against his lips, passing over in their shared breaths like something precious.

Harry is sorry, Louis is sorry. It doesn't make this any less reckless, but Louis can't help feeling that they deserve _something_ for all the waiting and wanting and miscommunication. It just so happens that this 'something' means everything to Louis.

Without thinking, he slows the kiss so he can saviour the wet slide of Harry's lips and taste him on his tongue. It's like he instinctively knows this can't spiral into something more, not tonight. 

His name on Harry's lips is no more than a soft sigh of air as they part.

For a second, Louis’ conviction trips and skips as Harry steps back a little, but then he realises that Harry looks about ready to gasp a few breaths and dive back in for more. His eyes are wide and dark, his wild curls rioting, and it's obvious his inaction isn't a result of doubts and hesitance, just…consideration for Louis. Which is Harry right to the core really.

Harry clears his throat, his hand coming up then slowly retreating as though he's second guessing himself.

Eventually, Louis needs to break this strange impasse and reaches behind for the handle that’s been pressing into his back for the past five minutes. He absently wonders if it’ll bruise.

He moves slow so that Harry knows he's not bolting but Harry's face still flinches when the door clicks open behind Louis' back.

“Louis, wait a sec."

He's speaking very evenly like Louis may detonate at any minute. It makes a laugh tickle in Louis' throat but he doesn't let it escape. He's worried it will come out painfully hollow or cruelly sardonic, and both would kill the fragile ceasefire they've got going on. So he just waits.

"What about tomorrow?" Harry continues hesitantly. "Will I see you?”

Louis' eyes flicker away trying to think of what he can possibly say to that. Any one of the thousand possible answers to that question could fuck things up beyond measure. It’s even harder to sort through the mess of it all with Harry so close. He's overwhelming at the best of times. 

It’s not just that he’s all-round brilliant and beautiful, which does blind Louis most hours, but he has this certain way of looking at Louis. Kind of like Louis has reimagined heaven, or that Harry is planning a Carribean wedding with confetti in the shape of little Hs and Ls. It's a lot and it started when they met, and Louis waited for it to get boring, but it never did. He assumes Harry looks at everyone that way but he wouldn't know for sure because he turns away whenever Harry's attention is elsewhere.

Right now though, with Harry wearing that honest look and his lips swollen with the last traces of their kiss, Louis just...

“Louis,” Harry urges. “Tomorrow?”

Louis shifts on the spot, squeezing the cool metal of the door handle in his grip. “We’ll see, yeah?”

He says it tentatively, hypothetically, because he doesn’t want to promise something that’s based on nothing other than the fact he’s starry eyed in the face of Harry being, well, Harry. And they’re not okay, not yet. 

So his tone carries both vague hope and dubious uncertainty, and he knows that Harry hears all that. And yet, as he watches, Harry’s face lights up with an enormous, gorgeously genuine smile, dimples turned on, the full works. That smile probably has the power to split atoms, and Louis has to turn away before he can breathe again. 

He'll deal with tomorrow, and Harry, in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A teaser: Day 4 sees both H & L back at the Guesthouse *happy sigh*


	6. Day four: Plum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> True to form, I'm behind schedule. But I hope you enjoy this new chapter. A warning (or promise, depending on your view) for pretty much a whole chapter of smut.
> 
> Would love to hear what you think if you have time to jot me a comment :)

**Louis**

Tuesday starts very much the same as Monday, except that Louis is colder and 24 hours tiereder.

He buries his head under a pillow when his first thought is of Harry. And while he screams into it as loudly as he possibly can, he can't help but wonder: which of them is going to be the one to fuck up today? Or, more depressingly, which of them will fuck up _first?_

But not long after he runs out of the breath and energy needed to scream his bedroom down, he finds out that tonight’s gift is plum lace and he remembers that he and Harry might be on the mend, or have an understanding at least. Plum lace panties and Harry. Yep, that'll be enough to motivate him out of bed.

When he gets to the Guesthouse, he shucks his jeans but keeps his white jumper on. It's a souvenir from the time Lottie took up knitting and it's completely the wrong size for him. It gives him sweater paws and just about covers his ass, making him feel both sexy and like he's being hugged by thousands of fluffy white feathers. 

Reuban's at the bar and tonight Louis needs courage of the Mexican liquor variety. He sits on a stool, sets his elbows down and grins, “Yes please, lad.”

A shot of tequila slides it's way into the cradle of Louis' hands. "This is new," Reuban notes. "Thought you were boycotting this bar."

"Officially, yes," Louis replies, running his finger round the rim of the glass. "Because what kind of bar doesn't serve beer?" 

Reuban coughs, "An upmarket one," into his fist.

Louis rolls his eyes. "Yeah, very funny mate." He eyes the gold in his glass. "But I need this."

Reuban gives him a long measuring stare. "Should I congratulate you or commiserate you?"

Louis knocks the tequila back and screws his face up. "Don't know yet."

The empty glass is taken from his hands and replaced with the whole bottle.

"So, it all depends on the person that's driven you to drink in the first place," Reuban rightly assumes. "Dare I ask who that might be?"

"I'll give you one good guess."

Reuban hums, smiles and starts buffing the oak near Louis' hands. "You're in the room over there by the way."

Louis follows the direction of his finger, looking over his shoulder to a purple door, windows smoky this side of the two way glass. "Who's waiting?"

Reuban smirks. "I'll give you one good guess."

"Thank fuck for that," Louis sighs at the ceiling.

"Congratulations it is then."

"Alright, this is important," Louis says, leaning closer. "I'm gonna need you to look and tell me if my ass is meant to be bursting out the bottom of these things. I don't understand them." 

Louis' fingers tug the band of purple lace on his tummy. It doesn't take a genius to understand the benefit of panties, but Louis' never really given much thought to them, not as more than an abstract concept and certainly not long enough to consider whether he should include them in his own wardrobe. He's a bit self conscious but excitement is swirling in his stomach all the same.

"If there was ever an arse to suit lace panties, I'm convinced yours would be it," Reuban assures him, doing a fairly good job of hiding his jealousy. "But err… I really don't want Harry to see me checking out your arse." He looks over Louis' shoulder to the shiny door, and then down to the other end of the bar. "Reckon he's gonna hunt down that guy later."

"Who? Oh." 

The Guest a few stools down is actually pretty cute and he's looking at Louis like he's been looking for quite some time already.

Louis has had Harry on his mind for so long now, a lullabying backing track to his life, that sometimes he forgets to notice that there are other people in the world. Most don’t make it shine like he does, though.

Under Louis' inquisitive gaze, the Guest squishes the napkin in his hand and asks, "Can I take you to a room?" 

It's rushed out like he's painfully nervous and Louis feels almost a little bad, but being able to say, "No lad, I'm taken," feels so good and he pauses until the thrill in his fingertips subsides. "But Reub finishes his shift at eleven."

Reuban carries on buffering the counter but his smile is easy and directed straight at the guy. "I am," he confirms. "And…" he looks at his watch, "I also have a break in ten minutes."

The Guest's eyes light up and Louis chuckles and gets up to face the music. And Harry. And whatever both of those things mean for him today.

"If he gives you any trouble, show him one of these," Reuban calls out, waving a cock cage in the air.

Louis laughs, confused but amused because he can perfectly picture Harry's face if he ever threw one at his stupidly gorgeous head.

~

**Harry**

The man at the bar has his eyes on Louis, and Harry is losing his mind.

Not Reuban — Harry's kind of grown to accept Reuban as Louis' friend, however strange the circumstances — but the other one. The Guest with the jittery hands and adoring eyes. 

Harry can't help imagining all the men that come here, taking what they want and taking it hard, but it's worse to think of them holding Louis gently, soft hands stroking, whispered lips telling him he's precious. 

He _is_ precious, but only Harry should tell him, because only Harry would tell him right, and he'd tell him _all_ _the time_.

He watches Louis laugh across the bar, so bright it travels the distance, and he wishes that laugh was for him. He wants to be the one to make Louis laugh like that again. Last night had been a waymarker somewhere on the journey towards it, and Harry had to count that as a success. 

He'd forced himself to hold the ice-cold crush of Louis' glare, begged him to understand until he could actually see Louis’ blood simmer down, the indignant fight fading from his frame, and a faint hesitant smile ready to soften his lips. 

To an outsider it might seem that Louis messes with Harry's head on purpose, but it's not like that. Something's been breaking Louis down the last few years. It might be loss, it might be fatigue, but Harry suspects it has something to do with the iron fist of their management. Louis has never spoken about it, but sometimes the words are on his face, etched into his world-weary sigh, sharpening the set of his jaw. He's been chipped away at, confidence stripped back, and Harry's realised too late. 

He's going to fix this, all of it, but he'll begin with clawing back the gulf between them, and he thinks he started last night. In an ideal world, the evening would have rounded off with marriage, but Harry's always aimed a bit too high and in light of the last few days, he'll take any improvement on a hissed curse and a terse goodbye. Getting to kiss Louis had been the very best.

Now if only Louis'd leave that damned bar before Harry's willpower vanishes and he ends up going out there to get him.

When he eventually walks into the room, wearing nothing but a long jumper the colour of lambs, he’s licking stray tequila from his fingertips and Harry is so distracted that he doesn’t sense the mischief in Louis’ eyes.

"I'm confused,” Louis says, sweet with an edge like the haunted giggle of a music box. “See, I thought we'd decided that you were gonna find someone else to get you off."

"That's not what we decided," Harry reminds him. He's mostly relieved that Louis' hasn't jumped back to self-doubt and anger. "And it's definitely not what you want."

Louis smirks. "I want you to feel free to give it to literally anyone in this club if it means you'll stop wasting my fucking time."

"But I'm not wasting your time.” Harry sees Louis' eyes spark, his free hand gripping the top of his thigh where tanned skin disappears under creamy wool. “Gonna make you come so hard.”

It’s only because Harry is watching so closely that he notices Louis' tiny intake of breath, shaky before he shakes himself into something more composed, more sarcastic, and a bit more like himself.

  
“Yeah? Never had to fake one before. Better learn quick." The insult might have carried more weight if it weren't obvious that Louis is talking utter shit to compensate for the furious blush on his cheeks.

"You seem pretty into it," Harry observes casually.

Louis shrugs. “Desperate times and all that.”

"I've made you come twice already," Harry counters with a playful grin. "More than happy to try again. You look amazing when you come." 

Harry lets his eyes drag up and down Louis' body as he leans against the wall like a fucking tease, bottle hanging from his fingers, wearing the tilt of a smile that Harry put there.

Harry's hard. Easy as anything. He'd be embarrassed but he accepted long ago that everything Louis does either sings to his heart or hums through his dick. It's always been that way. Even 16-year-old-Harry wasn't particularly embarrassed. Doves fly, the moon makes waves, and soulmates leave you happy and horny.

"Was it the same for you?" Harry asks, eyes settling on the dip of Louis' collarbone. "Seeing me come the first time, in front of that mirror? God, you looked…"

All Harry had been able to think about in the hours after he'd left the club was Louis’ back painted gold, the sweep of his spine and curve of his ass, pink cheeked and crying out his pleasure. 

He's flushed now, eyes turning glossy, mouth open just a bit as his tongue wets his lips. "That wasn't the first time," he murmurs, and then when Harry's forehead creases, explains, "The first night here... that wasn't the first time I saw you come."

Harry is none the wiser. Unless… "You weren't really in the shower, were you?!" He bursts out, and now it seems like it's Louis' turn to look confused. "The time you caught me jerking off? Did you watch through the crack in the door? Shit, that's so hot."

Or not hot, Harry guesses, because Louis is shaking his head, then dropping it with his cheeks aflame. "No, uh… not that time." He appears to rally himself and looks back up. "I may have been at a house party in Cheshire."

It says something about how gone for Louis he really is that his brain seems to process the revelation and forgive Louis with surprising ease. The shock is clear on his face for a lot longer, and Louis is watching him warily, clearly nervous for his reaction.

There's only one house party Harry can remember getting off at. And that was with… "Henrick," he thinks aloud. "He was a German exchange student."

Louis chews on the inside of his cheek, eyes narrowed.

"Oh god," Harry laughs as the memory rushes back to him. "I came so quick. It was awful."

"Nope," Louis disagrees, cheeks burning scarlet. "It wasn't."

Harry blinks. Louis looks sheepish, as he bloody well should, but there's hunger in his eyes too. 

"That was my first time with someone else," Harry says experimentally, lips curling at the edges when Louis' breath stutters. "I was so embarrassed at the time."

Louis fidgets, eyes wide. He seems to like the idea of witnessing Harry's first sexual encounter. 

Harry feels his grin widen. "You dirt," he teases. "You liked it, didnt you?"

Louis huffs. The blush is still high on his cheeks but it doesn’t stop him leaning in and pressing their lips together, rough and bitey like he's making a point.

"Nice distraction," Harry mumbles. It's barely comprehensible given that he's got his hands firmly on each side of Louis' face and is guiding their lips in hot steady open presses, soft brushes and warm slides, and he won't allow an inch of space between them.

They kiss like that, without stopping, until Louis gasps away to breathe, eyes blown, lips wet and panting. He holds Harry's eyes as he brings the bottle back up to his mouth.

And Harry wants to kiss away the shine from his lips, taste the liquor on his tongue. He wants _more_ and _now_ but there's something he needs to do first. His smile gives way and his face turns serious so Louis knows what he's saying is real. "I'm sorry about last night."

Louis freezes. "Sorry about which part?"

His face is blank, body alert, but Harry's been watching Louis fight his demons for years and he knows where his mind's gone, and how to fix it. 

"Not the kiss," he asserts quickly, "I don't just want to kiss you here, I want to kiss you everywhere. Anywhere you'll let me." Louis visibly relaxes, expression changing to surprise. Nice surprise. But Harry's not done yet. "I mean that I'm sorry that you were on your own here." 

Louis nods slowly. “Twice.”

“Twice,” Harry repeats dutifully, keeping his smile to himself. "I’m sorry I was an idiot.” 

“An idiot," Louis muses. "Is that a euphemism for 'dickhead'?”

Harry shrugs a little. “Pretty much.”

"Huh. Okay well, sit down, will you? You're making me nervous."

_… Like you're going to run,_ Harry reads off his face and obliges quickly, sinking into a high backed thistle purple chair.

Everything in the room is some shade of purple, like they went to town on that particular section of the Pantone colour palette. And there's a _shag rug_. Which, of course, Harry finds endlessly hysterical. He wants to point it out to Louis so they can snigger together, but that's not what tonight is about, and he's not sure they're ready to go back to sharing the joy of a dirty euphemism quite yet. 

Either way, Louis is waiting for some reassurance and Harry won't let him down.

_I'm not running,_ he makes his face say. _I'm sorry._

It's Louis' turn to say sorry. And he does. Only, Louis' apology is delivered a little differently to Harry's. 

Of course it is — Harry wouldn't expect anything less. What he doesn't expect is for Louis to put the tequila on the floor with a little _clink_ , or turn around to show Harry the arch of his back as he plants his hands on the wall, or for him to bend down very slowly, his jumper riding up the back of his thighs, millimeter by millimetre, up and over the little shadowy dip just before his ass curves out.

Harry has a few seconds to hope and pray that Louis is naked under that jumper before the material catches on a flash of purple, and then Louis bends lower still and the cream wool makes way for more purple and the edge of lace as it swoops in two little arcs across Louis ass cheeks, and _fuck_ Harry didn't think anything could be better than naked. He'll happily spend his life in penance for that mistake.

When Harry can force his eyes up, Louis is looking at him over his shoulder, smile curling into a wicked grin.

Before he can think too much about it, Harry is standing up and bridging the gap between them, mindful that Louis is watching him do it, conscious of his need to be sure that Louis is happy about it. When he's within reach, Harry's hand stretches out until the very tips of two fingers are bumping against the soft skin halfway up the back of Louis' thigh. 

He's all smooth lines and curves, carrying a hint of colour from the late Bank Holiday heatwave. Harry wants to spread him out, see all that skin, cover it with his own and grind down against it.

He drags in a lungful of air and travels his fingers gently upwards, stomach flipping when he feels the muscle trembling under his touch, skin goose-bumping in his wake. 

There's a shivering sigh slipping off Louis' lips as Harry's fingers reach the crease where his thigh becomes the swell of his bum. It's a sigh that Harry mirrors without even noticing.

"Touch your toes," he whispers.

And dear god, Louis does. He slides his palms down and off the wall until his fingers brush the fucking floor. The movement drags the hem of his jumper up and over his ass to settle above the little dimples either side of his spine, revealing lace and skin and making Harry's mouth wet.

Louis fills the panties out so well. It shouldn't be a surprise because his ass fills _everything_ out so well, but Harry still feels stoned off the sight.

"Oh my god, Louis," he breathes out, skimming the bottom of the panties with his index finger from the outside in and then hooking underneath, feeling the rough catch of lace and the silk of the sensitive skin of Louis' inner thigh.

"Fuck," Louis says. It sounds like the word has been punched out of him.

It's like a switch has been flipped in Harry's head and he snaps his hands up to grab two handfuls of Louis' ass. "You're such a tease," he whispers, pressing close and leaning over Louis' body to nip at his ear.

Louis moans again and slowly straightens up so that he can arch his back and grind his bum into Harry's groin, rubbing up and down with a breathy little laugh. "Now _that's_ teasing. You think you can make it out of your jeans this time?"

Harry drops his head into the little dip at the base of Louis' neck, hands still full of Louis' bum as he slowly circles his hips, riding the hard line of Harry's cock where it's trapped behind his zip.

"You're always so fucking up for it," Louis rasps, which is unsurprisingly true when it comes to Louis, but Louis actually sounds a bit awed.

"When it's you," Harry confirms. "And maybe that first time with Henrick," he feels obliged to add. After all, they were both there to witness that shit show of stamina.

"Fucking shut up about Henrick," Louis tells him, grinding back harder so that Harry's vision whites out for a second.

He takes a stumbling step back to compose himself, stooping to grab the tequila and swigging it generously. The fire it puts in his throat and chest help distract him from the heat in his dick.

As soon as he lowers the bottle, Louis is turning and reeling him in with a finger through his belt loop, grinning, hard dick bumping into Harry’s thigh through his jumper.

Harry swears he's a sip of tequila away from fucking Louis into the wall. But his romantic heart feels their relationship is still a bit fragile to just whip his cock out and go for it, so he's grateful when Louis takes the decision out of his hands, especially as it means watching Louis drop to his knees and nuzzle his face against the obscene bulge in his jeans. 

Oh god. How could Harry have forgotten that one of his first fantasies of them together was him looking down at Louis in this very position. 

It was right at the start, when Harry had taken inspiration from their nervous Sunday afternoon pre-live results show cuddles and turned it into _, 'Haz… what if we don't get through?… what if we never see each other again?… I can't lose you… let me show you what you mean to me… just this once,'_ and, _'No Lou, you can't… no really…. you'll ruin your voice for the show… but I love you too...'_ Etc etc. 

When Harry thinks about it now, it seems so much tamer that it felt at the time and be can't help but wonder whether many teenage boy's fantasies stop before the actual sex. What can he say… care and consent turn him on.

They still do. And in this fantasy-turned-reality, Louis doesn't have to sing tomorrow, and through some miracle, he is implausibly but undoubtedly sprawled at Harry's heels, with Harry's fly already undone, fingers delving over the top of black boxer briefs like he'll die if he doesn't.

"Would you have…? Umm…"

Louis pauses and looks up at him a little desperate and a lot irritable. "Harry, I'm sure you're about to ask something very fucking important but I _really_ want to see your dick."

"Yeah, yeah, okay." Harry nods emphatically even though he's arguably more desperate to ask his question than Louis is to sneak a look in his pants. But, you know, whatever Louis wants, Harry will give him.

Louis purses his lips and sighs, voice gentle when he says, "No, it's alright. Go on. What were you going to ask?"

Harry knows his face lights up. He knows because Louis' face does this really soft thing in response. "Would you have…? Like… did you ever think before the results shows, that we might not make it, and then we'd never see each other again? Did you ever think about how you'd miss me if that happened?"

"All the time, Haz." He wraps his hand around Harry's thigh, warm through the denim. "I don't see what that's got to do with me giving you a blow job though."

Harry giggles nervously. "You'd be surprised." 

Apparently endeared but impatient, Louis' looks back at Harry's still-clothed dick with a slightly terrifying focus, then his fingers curl round his shaft and Harry's stomach coils. "Yesss."

"Oh yes yes _yes,"_ Louis celebrates as he pulls Harry out of his boxers, eyes all over him. "I knew it," he mutters to himself, "I fucking…" and then he takes the head in his mouth.

The tight hot suction, the wet slide and Louis' eyes, big and china blue, glazed and gazing up at him, all combine to curl Harry's insides. Make his hand snap out to slap against the wall in front of him as Louis slides his lips down, then up, then off, everything then nothing at all. _Tease._

Harry's hips follow the warmth, nudging forward toward Louis' retreating mouth, only to meet Louis' grinning cheek instead.

"Louis," he groans, cock still bumping somewhere between Louis' cheekbone and jaw, partly to be annoying and partly because it feels kind of nice. "Come on."

Louis grins wider but he does bring his hand up to grip Harry at the base, and his other hand starts doing beautiful things round the head. His fingers toy with the foreskin, teasing it, rolling it down, sliding it back up, all the while making little whimpery noises that he'd deny all day long if Harry ever brought it up later.

Louis traces the tip back across his cheek, silky soft and slick, then alternates between licking over it and mouthing at the sensitive skin.

Harry's eyes flutter closed, as though his heavy lids know that both feeling it and seeing it will be too much. But he wants to see, wants the picture of Louis in a sluttish sprawl at his feet imprinted in his brain, flashing before his eyes whenever he blinks. Wants to watch as he takes more, cheeks hollowing as he sucks greedily. Wants to see what he can hear, wants to witness Louis lose it in his pretty panties with a mouthful of come.

Fuck. If Harry thinks too much about how this is Louis — the best friend, the person he cherishes most in all the world, the fantasy he gets to have — then he knows he'll combust, shoot off deep in Louis' throat. And that thought isn’t helping him keep composure. 

Louis must hear the helpless noise he makes. He pulls back a little, jerking his hand up and down in the moisture his mouth left behind. "So you're sorry, huh?"

Harry flicks a stunned glance down as Louis takes up right where he left off, bobbing quickly then slowly, but imploring Harry under his lashes to answer him. He has to wonder whether it would matter what he says, because the first word out of his mouth is actually, "Fuck," and Louis' eyes get dark and he shivers.

"I am," Harry says, forcing the words through his throat even as his stomach clenches, hips dipping so the length of him rides along Louis' tongue, hand burrowing into his hair and holding on for dear life. "I'm sorry for… for booking you and not turning up. For not, oh shit, realising it was you that first night. I thought it was, but, ah, I— I wanted it to be you so much I thought I was going crazy. Lou, uh _god,_ you were so beautiful. Never seen anyone so beautiful." Harry chuckles weakly. "As if you didn't know. People must tell you all the time."

It becomes apparent very quickly that maybe Louis doesn't know how beautiful he is, because as soon as Harry says the word, Louis shudders, eyes clenching shut, moan vibrating around Harry's cock. He shakes his head, as much as he can with a dick in his mouth.

"Fuck, Lou, you are," Harry tells him. His fingers hold Louis around the chin, squeezing gently till his eyes open again. "You're always beautiful."

Slowly, Harry steps back and takes hold of Louis under his arms, hauling him upright before Louis can think he's changed his mind, or lying, or whatever else goes through Louis' head to make him doubt himself, then he kisses him before he can disagree, chases the taste of himself off Louis' tongue, which meets him needily halfway out of his mouth. 

Harry presses his hand over the hard cock stretching out Louis' jumper. He runs the back of his fist along the line of it and catches Louis' moan in his mouth.

"You've been keeping that from me," Louis accuses when the kiss breaks. He nods down at Harry's erection, still spit slick and dirtying Louis' jumper with precome.

Harry bites his lip. “Can I put it in?”

Louis scoffs, a flash of clarity through the dizzy exhilaration, and levels Harry with an unimpressed look. “With the stunt you pulled, you'll be lucky if you ever get to dick me again.” 

Harry swivels him neatly with a hand on each hip and whispers in his ear. "What if I wanted to put my tongue in?” 

Louis' hips kick forward and Harry smiles so hard his cheeks hurt.

If being eaten out is Louis’ greatest weakness, Harry thinks his life might be complete. If he ever had any doubts about their sexual compatibility, they're dust now. 

He's wanted his mouth on Louis so badly. The first and only time he had the opportunity, Louis was gold. And then he wasn't allowed to touch let alone taste. Now he can take what he wants and he won't hold back.

Harry turns Louis back around, shoving the jumper up his sides and lifts it over his head.

“You could at least take your time," Louis says dryly. "I worked tirelessly on this outfit."

His cock is nudging into Harry's stomach, velevety soft where it peeks out the top of the lace. It paints the thin trail of hair there with precum, and the sensation makes Harry choke on his huff of laughter. 

"I want you," he grinds out instead.

Louis hums, still panting, breathy laugh humid against Harry’s shoulder. "Have at it," he says before his lips start to map a path from nipple to nipple, a few little bites on the way.

"But what do _you_ want Louis?" Harry asks, knowing he's teasing a bit but loving it anyway. "You're gonna have to tell me otherwise I'll have to guess, and the last time you told me you wanted something, it was for me to fuck someone else. Maybe that's still what you want. Maybe I'll have a go next door instead. What do you reckon?"

"No," Louis snaps, voice cracking a little before he swallows hard.

"No," Harry echoes, firm. "Whoever he is, he won't be you. Won't be anywhere near as hot as you. Won't be amazing like you."

Louis dips his head, grinds his frown into Harry's chest.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

Louis does nothing for a couple of seconds and all Harry can hear is the rush of blood in his veins and then Louis shakes his head.

"I'll prove it," Harry promises. "Starting now."

There's a wet flick against his collarbone. It must be Louis' tongue seeking out the curves and divots of his chest. It certainly doesn’t feel like a protest.

"Kneel on the sofa."

Louis raises his eyebrows but moves incredibly quickly for someone that doesn't want to obey. He kneels on the sofa, facing the back of it and grabs at the top like he’s bracing himself for everything Harry so badly wants to give him. He stills for a second then slowly slides his knees a little further apart, throwing an innocent look at Harry over his shoulder.

Harry’s on him in a second, landing on the floor in front of the sofa so that all he can see is purple lace, right in front of his face. As much he loves that, he needs Louis naked more, and he hooks his fingers in the waistband of the panties and peels them down, relishing the hitch in Louis’ breath.

He starts to worry a second later when Louis seems frozen in place, thighs tense under Harry’s hands.

“Louis?” Harry prompts, then more urgently, “Is this okay? Louis, answer me. Do you want to do colours?”

Louis’ body starts moving pretty quickly after that, and he’s laughing.

Harry bristles, annoyed and relieved at the same time. “Well, I'm not doing anything until you answer me.” 

“It's just that I can't recall you caring much about my colour last time.” 

“You weren't supposed to be talking last time,” Harry snaps. “Now, are you okay?”

Louis smiles over his shoulder. “Yeah, big guy. Chill out. Was just excited.” He faces forwards again. “Don’t know how I’ll ever get enough of this.” He’s clearly trying for nonchalant, but the words come out breathy.

Harry clears his throat. _Okay then._

Despite the apparently unnecessary panic, Harry's dick’s still hard as stone, and it's easy as anything to slip back into the fuzzy tornado of sex. Sex with _Louis._

He gets back to it, a buzz in his veins, an ass cheek in each spread hand. He uses his thumbs to ease the way so he can see the pale pink hole and send a breath of air over it. He hears Louis whine, a high note that fires Harry's lust like napalm, and he finds himself rutting into the sofa.

Harry bites into the flesh of Louis' bum, enough so he can feel it, then kitten licks his way from one cheek to the other, stopping in the middle only to tease a single hot stripe over the rim.

"Fuck yeah. Do it again,” Louis demands, rolling his hips back into Harry's tongue.

Harry grins against Louis’ skin and tilts his head, an angle slightly to the right that has his tongue slipping against Louis’ rim again. He licks over it a couple more times, broad strokes that have Louis quivering in his hands. 

“Yes Haz, more,” Louis pleads. As if Harry needs persuading.

Harry laps at him quicker, planting his hands further up Louis’ back, bracketing his spine and drawing his fingers down, erasing the touch of anyone who’s come before. His tongue circles the tight ring of muscle, and when he eases it through, Louis barks a startled moan, hand snapping back to press against the back of Harry's head. 

Louis rocks forward and back, and Harry just moans against him, reaching past Louis' hip to make a loose fist around his cock, pumping the length of it then playing his fingertips through the slick that’s gathered there. He fucks his tongue in and out, so keyed up with his own pleasure that it’s taking everything he has to ignore the way his dick throbs. 

Louis is writhing now and Harry watches in amazement. He can tell that his eyes are wide and wonders if they’re as wild as he feels.

“Who'd have thought you'd eat out so fucking well,” Louis is saying, voice lilting and made to tease, hand fisting in Harry’s hair and sending vicious little shocks of pleasure pain down his spine, "when you wank so fucking _polite_." 

Louis _remembers_ that?

Harry squeezes the flesh of Louis’ hips. His voice comes out deep and gravelly when he says, “Nothing polite about what happened after you left.”

"After I _left_?” Louis exclaims, laughing though it’s strained with pleasure. “That’s flattering.” 

Harry huffs out a laugh, pushing hot air over Louis’ wet skin and making him shiver and sound out the most beautiful noises. Harry takes his time replying, ears still buzzing with that moan, making sure he's accurately memorised it for later.

“You got me all riled up." He nips into the meat of Louis' thigh and noses against a couple of freckles. "Never felt that horny before. Just the thought of you in that shower. God, I wish I'd asked you to join me in bed.”

Louis drags in a gasping breath. His hips buck forwards into the circle of fingers then back towards the wet heat like he's not sure what he wants most. 

Harry licks back inside straight away, working him harder, darting his tongue inside and licking outside, sucking the skin as Louis keeps rocking back against his face and starts whining his name, voice cracking in the way that his fans say makes him sound real and raw.

When Harry flicks his wrist around the head of his cock and sinks as deep as he can go into his tight heat, Louis quivers. He cries out as he hits the first wave of his orgasm, fingers tugging sharply on Harry's hair, hips thrown out of rhythm as he comes with a muffled shout of Harry’s name.

Harry helps him wring out all the pleasure he can from it, until Louis is sensitive and twitching, and then he can’t hold back anymore. He stumbles up, rushing to kneel around Louis on the sofa, to press himself to Louis’ back, skin on skin, desperate cock finding the groove of Louis’ ass and starting up rabbity thrusts with his hips, hissing at the contact.

“Lou, I—” he hears himself saying into Louis’ shoulder, mouth open and panting against his skin.

"Come on, Harry, come on, all over me, you can, I want you to, I—"

And just like that, Harry comes. He comes over the small of Louis' back, so hard and for so long that he wonders if he’s coming a second time. It feels like flying apart and being pieced back together again. 

The waves of pleasure rock through him and with a dazed grin on his lips, his body moves gently with each of Louis' inhales and exhales, smaller and smaller movements as Louis comes down and gets his breath back.

Harry's dick is still jerking against the crease of Louis' ass when he looks over his shoulder, lashes heavy with blissed out tears, back shining with hot puddles of come, and Harry feels breathless and brainless. “God, I love you like this.” 

Louis’ eyes flash and Harry can’t quite make out what that means or whether there's some danger he needs to be prepared for. He’d almost started to forget that they’re in this delicate balance, fragile like fluted crystal and spun sugar. It's a game they play with weighted dice, and what comes next, the sass Louis pulls out of the bag to protect himself, doesn’t really surprise him.

“Well, you're in good company,” Louis says, one of his small hands flicking about in a vague gesture that suggests he's referring to the club's many Guests.

Harry gives him a withering look and Louis' responding glare doesn’t bother him in the slightest. After a few seconds with swords drawn, Louis drops the act. He sighs and shrugs a shoulder apologetically. "Yeah, alright, unnecessary that one. Sorry mate.”

He nudges Harry a little, but not unkindly, just like he’s sticky and his knees have fallen asleep or something, and so Harry makes a mess of backing up off the sofa, almost falling over himself and slicing off his own dick in his zip as he puts himself back together. That part is more for Louis’ sake than his own. He’d far sooner stay naked but he’s not sure how Louis will feel about it, especially as he’s busy pulling the panties back up onto his hips as though clothing is the way to go.

“So smooth,” Louis snickers as Harry almost loses his balance again. He turns around, bouncing his bum down onto the seat of the sofa.

Harry purposely avoids thinking about the poor sod that will have to clean his jizz out of the crushed velvet.

“Mate,” Harry echoes, toying that one around in his head for a minute. “You do know you’re only kidding yourself if you think that’s all we are.”

Louis’ eyes get wide, his spine stiffening. Maybe Harry’s never been quite this straight talking before, maybe Louis is starting to believe him when he says nice things about him. Maybe, maybe, maybe. With so many maybes, Harry falls back on his one constant certainty — that Louis is meant to be his.

He’s not perfect. Far from it, really. But he’s Harry's kind of perfect. Even when he's abrasive and snarky, even when he talks like nails down a chalkboard, Harry has never been able to imagine preferring a single other person. Still can't.

In this belief, Harry is sure footed. And it gives him the confidence to try and move them another step forward.

"I have a dinner thing tomorrow afternoon. It’s at four. A label thing.” Harry watches Louis draw in on himself a little. He understands what Harry means by that. It’s the sort of obligation that they all try and skirt as far as the shackles of contract and expectation will allow. “I hoped you’d be there,” he says carefully. “Will you come along, Lou? I really would like you to.”

"Unless I get a better offer," Louis winks. 

Harry scrunches his face up, hand to his heart, and channels a little bit of Louis' sass. "Honey, I'll be there. What's better?"

Louis grins, sudden and wide, the one with the crinkly eyes that always makes Harry’s stomach flip.

Today it also stirs something light and fluffy in Harry’s chest. And It has him smiling all the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... more soon, but please drop a kudos or comment if you're enjoying this. Thanks for reading!


	7. Day five: Mercury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading and commenting on this story so far.
> 
> Hope you like the new chapter!

There’s a party at Harry’s place, and despite any poorly judged post-coital promises he may have made the day before, Louis is definitely not going. 

He’s not going right up to the point he puts his finger on the buzzer of Harry’s flat number and grinds his forehead into the wood because he's so fucking stupid.

No good will come of being here, he knows. But he’s the kind of person that throws his arms wide and invites trouble in for a hug, so he doesn’t bother edging along the wall, hoping he’ll go unspotted. There’s chaos to be made and he’ll be at the centre of it, even if it’s the last tabloid headline standing between him and pariahdom.

He always forgets how big this place is. There's so many people and Louis wants to speak to a grand total of one, but be sucks it up and finds a musician he barely knows and he chats and he laughs and he flirts a little bit, all the while pretending that the real reason he's here isn't because he couldn't say no to the one person he should really be saying no to. But he did, and he hates it as much as he loves it.

There’s already a dense cloud of people circling Harry, the lightning at the very centre of the storm. Through the little gaps between strapless shoulders and tilted heads, Louis can see him, champagne-loose and handsome as the devil. He can hear the low burr of his voice, speaking slowly as though everyone will wait for him. Which they undoubtedly will.

The shirt he's wearing — half wearing — is blue-grey and silky, with tiny stars the colour of mercury. His face is flushed so pretty and his hair is curling tighter in the heat of the room, wisping by his ears and off his brow so sweetly.

After a moment, Harry senses he's being watched and turns Louis' way. Their eyes catch, hot and sharp, before Niall breezes between them.

"Turn back now," the blond advises urgently, his expression that of the terminally bored. This must be bad because even in the worst of circumstances, Niall can usually make his own fun. "You are _not_ going to like this. And sweet jaysus can she talk," he grumbles, trying to shuffle Louis backwards. 

"And you should know," Louis quips, making no effort to help Niall relocate him.

"And I should know," Niall agrees. "I had to tell her I was literally about to piss meself before she let me go."

"Who are you talking about?" Louis frowns, harmlessly slapping at Niall's arms to get him to leave off. "And please tell me you're not actually going to piss yourself. You're not that drunk and it's Zayn's turn to babysit you. This is so unfair."

"Louis!"

They both jump a foot in the air.

"Shit," Niall mutters.

When Louis turns towards the new voice, he realises that it belongs to a young woman wearing a floor-length dress. It's covered in minty green sequins that bounce light into Harry's eyes and make them brighter. Harry himself stands no more than an inch to her right, angled into her like they're being sucked together, and Louis' heart hurts a little bit.

It's obvious that this is the girl Harry text to warn him about. Another of those set ups that Louis knows better than anyone — perception, diversion, and the 1D brand — but it still aches. At least Harry told him as soon as he found out. They must be getting better at this communicating thing. 

It does help to know that none of it's real, from the hand on Harry's arm to the fingers round her little waist, and it's nice to know that Harry's skin is still carrying the bruises that Louis put there. 

Harry's not even trying to hide them. The string of tiny marks can be seen clear as day between the open pieces of shirt fabric. Harry really should be trying to hide them, because this girl sure as shit didn't give them to him.

When Louis looks at those little bruises, all he hears is _'I want you,'_ and all he sees is the moment leading up to him sucking and nipping them into existence, when for a few blissful minutes, Harry's head was thrown back, tendons in his forearms twitching as his fingers grabbed at Louis' hair. He can almost taste the heavy cock on his tongue, the way Harry had filled his mouth, his throat, and said things Louis can't ever imagine being true. 

But one irrefutable undeniable fact is the colourful chain of bruises around Harry's chest. Purple sure looks good on him.

As hard as Louis struggles to look away, politeness dictates that he stop staring at Harry's tits, even if he's taken the decision to get them out for all to see. 

Louis swallows hard, bites back his self-satisfied smirk, and turns to the woman waiting to introduce herself.

"Yeah hi, I'm Louis. I don't think we've met."

"No, I don't think so," she slides a hand his way, a smile on her lips. "I'm Laura, I'm Harry's date."

Harry's eyes dart over to Louis in a flash, and Louis has missed him so much that he can't help but meet him halfway.

Now he's close to Harry again, it's like his morning spent worrying never happened. The black butterflies in his tummy disappear and the swarm of possible things he imagined could go wrong at this party, orchestrated as it is by their management, take a back seat. All the rationally minuscule yet heartbreaking things that could drive a wedge through the middle of his and Harry's repairing relationship, begin to fade out.

Harry, however, is far less chilled. His eyes are intense in that ridiculously obvious way of his, and now that he has Louis' attention, he's shaking his head in tiny fervent little movements. Silent _no no no_ s.

Just as Harry realises that not only does he have Louis' attention but also that of the entire circle of people around him, including the date he's currently denouncing, Laura levels him with a look. 

"No?" she questions calmly, pointedly, and starts to fold her arms across her chest.

"No, I mean," Harry coughs. "Yeah, of course."

A laugh erupts out of Niall and he claps his hand over his mouth too late.

Jesus, Harry's properly rubbish at this.

Louis shoots him a warning look and saves him by rolling his eyes, leaning closer to Laura and saying, "Ignore him, love. It's my fault. My beer's got him clucking like a mother hen. As much as I love her, Stella and I don't make for a healthy relationship."

It's the best he's got on next to no sleep. Fortunately, Laura seems to be humouring him. "I won't tell," she promises.

Louis dredges up a smile then ticks his head towards Harry. "I might need your help convincing him through."

"No problem," she says confidently, eyes on Harry, voice like silk. 

The mere suggestion that Harry would do her bidding grates at Louis' nerves. He can't let it show, though. Even in this small group, a fraction of the hangers-on that tug at Harry's curls and slink close like they want to share his skin, there are attentive ears.

"Evening, Tomlinson." 

And yes, Grimshaw is the smartest among them. He's looking at Louis hard, like he's been scrutinising him since he walked in the door. Louis gives him a perfunctory nod and thinks that at least he has Niall.

"The key thing," Niall pipes up to say, "is not to let slip to _anyone_ that Stella likes to gift Louis the kind of two day hangover that leaves him crying and puking and crying and—"

"Yes, thank you Nialler," Louis snips quickly. While he appreciates Niall's efforts to make his lie believable, he really doesn't want Laura thinking she's better than him.

Grimshaw is smirking and Louis grits his teeth. 

_We like Niall, remember._

"Excuse me, Niall," Harry frowns, "but what's so bad about crying?" 

Louis can't help but send him a smile. Laura ignores him.

"All the stories I've heard about you so far have been flattering, Louis," she tells him, her gaze heavy and dark as though Louis should be grateful or defensive or… _something_. "You're all Harry talks about quite honestly."

Louis smiles, probably a bit too widely, a bit too proudly. Maybe that's why she's looking at him so weirdly. If their roles were reversed, Louis would be hearing alarm bells if his date talked constantly about someone else too.

"Niall, I'm sorry to say that I think Harry has a favourite band mate," she adds, eyes never leaving Louis.

Niall snorts. "Ain't that the truth. By the end of the first week, we knew there was no point competing for little H's affections." He leans against Harry with an exaggerated pout.

Louis should be steering them away from this land mine and back to safer territory but the way Laura laughs into Harry's shoulder and clutches his bicep has Louis readying for battle.

"First week, Niall? You must have that beat, Laura. To have worked it out so quickly." Louis raises an eyebrow and purposely ignores the way Harry's staring at him. "I mean, you haven't known Harry long have you? When exactly did you meet again?" he asks lightly.

Laura tenses a little, smile fading fast. 

_That's right. It was three hours ago. At most._

He wants to make her realise that when it comes to him and Harry, there's no competition, and by the look on her face, he's succeeded. He starts to feel a bit shit about it until he realises that she doesn't actually look hurt. Instead she's assessing him like a threat to be mitigated, even when he plasters on a friendly smile, and it only serves to bring out a triumphant smugness in him, a proprietary feeling that warms him right down to the bone.

The woman on the other side of Laura is watching her like she's caught the scent of prey and Grimshaw's narrowed eyes flick from Laura to Louis to Harry and back again, but as soon as he opens his mouth to speak, Harry sees the danger and swoops in to talk about some film premiere where he supposedly met Laura, dimpling gorgeously throughout so that everyone buys it.

As the conversation recovers, it becomes apparent very quickly that Laura's actually a pretty decent person, and Harry, seemingly reassured that Louis isn't going to get the wrong idea, eases into the act and Laura's touches until he's tucking her into his side even when there isn't a camera around.

Louis tries to push past his jealousy, makes himself remember that Harry is more his than he is hers. By this point, nothing can dispute the fact that their friendship has finally tiptoed over the line in all the ways it counts. Not Louis' fear of exposure, not his tied hands, held fast as they are by the mighty. Not even Louis' poor self esteem can argue that Harry likes him, maybe even loves him. If only wanting were as easy as having. Because all the things that can't stop Harry wanting, all conspire to stop Louis having.

But Laura… Laura can be sweet and wholesome and public facing, and exactly what Harry's going to need. Or, at the very least, what he'll be told he needs. The smiling sweetheart that talks like a gentleman but smiles like an angel and the devil made a baby… well, he won't be able to charm forever. At some point there'll be a challenge to his superstardom, and it won't matter that he's lovely and generous, thoughtful and human. That won't be enough for Malarkey.

And suddenly this farce of a date looks more and more like the foreshadowing of the rest of their lives.

With the pressure of an entire industry on his back, how long would Harry's adoration of Louis last? A month? A year? A couple at a push. Once Harry's chased him and caught him and loved him, they'll get noticed. And then Louis will bow to the pressure because that's all he knows, and because he can't stand to see Harry hurt. And over time, he'll be nothing to Harry but a sure thing that'll dress up and role play. That is, of course, as long as the kink hasn't become boring too. Then they'll put someone even prettier than Laura on Harry's arm at an awards ceremony, someone bland and agreeable and who'll make Harry's life easier. 

That's when the novelty will wear off. The novelty of Louis.

After that suckerpunch of a thought process, everything feels a bit too much to deal with. Not least his own self-hatred or Laura's tinkling laugh or Harry’s eyes as they glitter green at him from over the heads of people that actually belong here.

Louis is a master at making excuses, so there’s no need to skulk off all cloak and dagger like he has something to hide. But that’s how it feels anyway. He spares a tight smile, taps out halfway through someone's sentence, and ignores Niall's concerned gaze as it follows his back out of the room.

~

Harry's a picture person. 

Louis is too, and that's probably why, instead of heading to the door and home like he ought to, his legs take him to the stretch of hallway that leads to Harry's bathroom and bedroom.

It's covered top to bottom with photos and Louis has always loved it, could sit for hours looking at Harry's life on these walls. The ones their mums had taken when the band was first formed are all grouped together. In most of them, Louis is mugging for the camera and Harry is caught watching him with a huge grin.

It's always been like that. Even the day they met, Harry acted like they knew each other from lifetimes ago. Like he’s thought about every incarnation of the pair of them, and how they loop into each other. He’s probably imagined their spirit animals, knows the exact shade of their fur and feathers, and has named them. It’s all a fucking nonsense because Louis will never believe that he could be on chance number 106 or whatever and still be fucking it up so royally.

A sigh pushes out of his chest as he moves on to the shots from their shared apartment. Those are some of his favourites, and they soothe him like hot chocolate.

The Harry and Louis in front of him are a year or so younger, with laughter in their eyes and a happy flush on their cheeks. They’re squeezed as close together as two people can be, looking down the lens in joy as Louis presses his lips to Harry's cheek.

It's quiet in the hallway but every now and then, a burst of laughter will filter under the door and invade the space. Occasionally, he catches the sound of Harry's slow chuckle through the wall. It's during one of those chuckles that Louis is forced to accept that he's actually been waiting for Harry to come find him.

At last, Harry slips into the hallway.

"I like this one best," Louis decides, tapping at a dark wood frame and watching Harry's reaction out of the corner of his eye.

Harry steps closer, stopping behind him and Louis can feel his breath on his neck, ghosting passed his ear.

"Me too."

It's actually a capture from interview footage, and Harry must have got the screenshot printed especially. In the picture, Harry's behind him, just like he is now, trying to be inconspicuous as he draws delicate barely-there patterns on Louis' arm.

Looking at it now, Louis has no idea how he's been able to explain away these moments as purely platonic.

It's all there in this one picture. The excited tension Harry tries to play off as casual, the purposeful touch he pretends is distracted and meaningless.

It's in the way Louis deliberately moves into it, muscles sinking a little further into the sofa, inviting more. The way Louis pretends his reaction is absent minded, even as his body melts for it.

He feels the same arousal now as he did back then, and he's not alone. Harry's swaying closer to him, chest hot and solid against his back, and Louis can feel him shudder quietly, can hear his tiny hurried breath as it rushes through his lips. 

When the loose fist of Harry's right hand lifts and gently brushes Louis' arm, he knows Harry's been replaying the memory too. Reliving it heightens everything. Knowing what they could have had but lost, and what they may still be able to get back and more, it has him wired, skin goosebumping and heart racing. It's an adrenalin hit to the vein.

Louis’ nerves fizz at the light bump of Harry's knuckles as they travel slowly down his arm, sparking like they’re both charged with static, and Louis tries not to gasp. He lets his eyelashes flutter closed for a couple of very long seconds, savouring the tickle of fingers on his arm and the soft wisps of breath on his neck, shivering at the heady rush of blood to his dick.

Taking a deep breath, he turns around.

Harry's eyes are dark as they trail up the front of his body, tripping over every bit of him. It's nothing he hasn't seen a million times before but Louis still feels like he's mapping it all in his brain. 

Eventually, when Harry seems to have got his fill, he erases the step between them and presses so close that Louis can actually feel his cock hardening against his stomach. They both gasp as burning hot lust licks low in their bellies. 

"Took you long enough," Louis mutters, looping his arms around Harry's neck and dragging him in for a kiss, bitey and hard like he's punishing him for more than taking his time to find him.

Through the haze of it, Louis has the presence of mind to remember where they are, and that if anyone came looking for the bathroom now, they'd see just how much of a farce that date of Harry’s really is. They'd see Harry meeting Louis' lips hungrily, hands squeezing between the wall and Louis' back to cup his bum with both hands and hitch him closer. They'd know that while it's the furthest from gentle that a kiss can be, that it's something not nothing. They’d catch the desperate hands and the needy moans, and they’d witness the end of a career, or five.

And despite all that, and because he has no shame whatsoever, Louis thinks _fuck it_ and takes the gift of Harry's thigh between his legs when it's offered to him, grinding up to ride the hard line of muscle.

"We shouldn't be doing this here," Harry murmurs, so deep and low it forces a shiver through Louis' body.

"Yeah, and if you didn't sound so fucking ecstatic about it, I'd suggest we stop," Louis counters, bucking up into the rough press of Harry's hips. "But it makes you hot, doesn't it? The thought of being caught. It gets you going, right?”

Harry draws back just enough so that he can look Louis in the eye, eyebrows raised. "Just as well it does given your track record for voyeurism."

"Shut up," Louis laughs and bites at Harry's bottom lip till he growls. "Admit it, you want to fuck me senseless."

"I want to fuck you quiet," Harry retorts, pressing an open mouthed grin into the side of Louis' mouth.

"Good luck," Louis says very sweetly, grabbing the front of Harry’s jeans and squeezing the hard length of his cock, laughing again when Harry moans really fucking loudly. It makes Louis feel exhilarated and nervous, and he can’t say it’s not amazing. "They probably heard that,” he teases, knowing it’ll punch another moan out of Harry’s mouth. 

"Fuck," Harry whispers.

The backs of Harry's knuckles trace the seam of Louis' tight jeans, up his inner thigh, higher and higher.

“So…" Louis says quietly, a bit hesitantly, fingers burying themselves deep in Harry's curls like it's grounding him. "Laura seems nice." 

"I'm sure she is," Harry agrees dismissively, kissing a line up Louis' throat and nibbling at the soft spot behind his ear. "If you like that sort of thing." He nudges his nose along Louis' jaw and hums appreciatively when he reaches Louis' lips again. "Which I don't."

Louis' hips twitch, heart lodged very high up in his throat. "I'm so terribly sorry to hear that."

Harry chuckles huskily. "I'm sure."

Louis hums, grinning wide, head falling back against the wall and knocking a couple of photo frames to the floor. He grinds his hips in a particularly tight purposeful circle against Harry’s cock.

“You're killing me,” Harry chokes out, but Louis knows he'll make no move to save himself. 

He doesn't, and his hands take up a frantic tour of Louis' body, running all over him like they don’t know where they want to settle the most. Then out of nowhere, he stops with a muttered curse, so suddenly he seems frozen, and now Louis thinks he knows why people use that word, because he immediately feels icy cold from it.

"Move,” Harry mutters quickly, pulling Louis by the hand before two voices filter into the hallway.

In Harry's bedroom, Louis is surrendering his wrists to the wall and to Harry’s grip. He's leaning towards Harry's mischievous smile, ready to pick up the rhythm of their kiss again, when they hear Liam's voice.

“They're acting weird, Niall. It’s freaking me out."

Louis’ startled eyes flick to Harry’s.

“When aren’t they?” they hear Niall reply.

Harry holds Louis' gaze steadily, and uses his thumb to draw a small reassuring circle into the pulse point at Louis’ wrist.

“Not this weird,” Liam argues. “And... I don’t like it when they argue.”

Louis actually feels a bit bad at that, but he could really do with Liam moving the fuck along because Harry has already popped the button of his jeans open and is slipping his hand into Louis’ boxers, circling his hard on in a firm grip. By the grin on his face, he clearly thinks it’s a stroke of genius. 

It is, it’s fucking inspired, and Louis has to bite down on his tongue to stop the sounds he wants to make. In a momentary lapse of wisdom, he decides that looking away from Harry's spit slick lips will help him wrestle back some kind of control, but it just means that when he tips his head down, he sees Harry’s hand curved around him, cross tattoo stretched between thumb and forefinger as he thumbs over the head. And now Louis' vision is washed through with black ink and porcelain skin, and his own cock flushed rose.

“Holy fuck,” he whines.

"Shhhh.”

_"You_ shush,” Louis hisses, only for Harry to snort quietly into the soft spot above his collarbone and flick his wrist faster.

In the back of Louis’ mind, he registers the sound of a door clicking open.

"Come on Li, they’re not in the loo. Fuckin' hell.”

“Well, it's not like I was hoping to find them in the bath together, but I _do_ need to find them. If they don’t turn up to do the re-records tomorrow, it’ll be me that gets it.”

“Re-records?” Louis echoes to Harry, voice cracking a little. His splayed hands skitter on Harry's chest, feeling the play of muscles bunching and releasing under his shirt.

Harry shrugs, pinches his bottom lip between his teeth in that way of his that always gets Louis' blood hot, and then he lightly taps Louis’ slit and Louis has to slap a hand over his mouth to muffle a little scream.

“They’re grown ups,” Niall is insisting a wall over, and they all ignore Liam’s scoff. “Just text them and they’ll be there. Maybe. Well, they will or they won't. But either way, they’re not in the hallway and I think we all remember what happened the last time you walked into Harry’s room uninvited.”

“Good point,” Liam says, surprisingly quickly. Louis makes a mental note to needle out that story, right after he’s finished humping into the tunnel of Harry’s hand.

“Come on, Harry's bar has beer on tap. I'll pull you a pint."

"Do you even know how to pull a pint?"

" _Do I fucking know how to pull a pint?!_ You've got a fuckin mouth on ya, Payne."

Liam can be heard laughing until finally, _finally,_ the conversation fades away.

“Uh _fuck,_ thank god they've gone,” Louis moans as Harry swaps hands and speeds up his strokes. “Harry, fuck fuck, _Harry._ ”

"You're so fucking loud," Harry comments delightedly, his empty hand burning on Louis' thigh. 

"I'll give you fucking loud," Louis grumbles only to moan obligingly when Harry unzips his own trousers to let his dick flick out from his boxers. He lines himself up with Louis, taking them both in one large hand. "Why is that so hot?" 

Harry laughs breathily. "Cos your cock is so fucking pretty," he says.

If it weren't for the pleasure thrumming though him or the fact that Harry's lazy sex-soaked tone has the coil of heat tightening in his belly, he might invite Harry to regale him with more bullshit. As it happens, he's forced to take the compliment as it was intended.

Then Harry is lifting him up so his legs are round Harry's waist. He yelps when his back is slammed against the wall, feeling Harry's cock press up against his again, the velvety hot drags as he grinds them together.

Louis is buzzing and he knows his eyes are probably glassy. They keep failing shut then flying open because he doesn't want to miss this. Harry's blown out eyes are fixed on his lips, eyelids going heavy when Louis reflexively licks at them. All the while, he keeps a rhythm of steady jerks on their cocks that make Louis' thighs clutch around his waist.

Louis makes a disgruntled noise when Harry lets go of him, but before he can even think of a proportionately severe insult, Harry pushes their shirts up their chests and presses in again so their dicks are trapped between their stomachs. Louis' tummy is a bit softer than the hard muscle of Harry's, but together the combination feels amazing. 

By the look on Harry's face, he's also feeling words like _together_ and _amazing,_ and he's so fucking fit with his hair tousled over his face, cheeks flamed pink, and eyes crazy with pleasure and need, that Louis' orgasm just rushes up on him, crashes over him, has his toes curling as he wets the back of Harry's hand.

"Shit," Harry gasps out.

Louis' body is swimming deliciously but he doesn't think he can properly breathe again until Harry's come too. He feels like he needs to get Harry there as badly as he needed it himself, if not more. 

"Haz, come on." He grips Harry and pumps him quickly. "Give it up, come on."

Like a flipped switch, Harry's body tenses and then he's crying out, releasing all of the air from his lungs in a long satisfied sigh.

It takes Louis time to come down, revelling as he is in the sated laugh Harry breathes into his neck and the sparks that fly through his nerves each time he squeezes his legs round Harry's waist to feel their dicks slide together and the hot rub against Harry's lower abs.

"Is there a theme tonight?" Harry asks after a while.

"It's Wednesday," Louis reminds him, still shuddering.

"Yes?" Harry looks at him with question marks in his eyes. "Oh god, it doesn't involve chastity devices does it?"

Louis rolls his eyes and slips his feet back down to the floor. "I've told Reuban and I'll tell you, I don't want to know that story. And no… no chastity devices. No anything. The Guesthouse shuts on Wednesdays."

"Oh," says Harry with a little frown before cursing under his breath. "Asshole could have mentioned that when he took my money for a _full week_."

Louis cracks up. "What, Reuban? Christ, you're such a sucker. Just as well you're loaded. Heroin would probably be a cheaper hobby."

Harry's face lights up. "Yeah, but a lot less awesome."

Louis narrows his eyes and hums. "It's probably as well anyway. Sounds like we've been called into the studio tomorrow."

Harry pats himself down. "I don't even know where my phone is." Then he pats Louis down for no reason whatsoever.

"I haven't got your phone, you perv," Louis smirks, batting Harry's hands away and doing his flies back up. "We better go before Liam and Niall actually find us."

Harry tries to do something to make his hair more presentable. The result is a beautiful failure. "Do you think they’d be pissed off if they did?”

“Maybe,” Louis says excitedly.

Harry’s genuine bubble of laughter is slow and carefree, warming like calm waves over sun-kissed pebbles. 

It's hard to let Harry go after that, but Louis forces himself to stay put and give Harry a head start. When he's back in the living room, his eyes search Harry out one last time before he leaves. 

He finds him in a new social circle, looking down at his martini with a soft smile on his face. His collar is bunched and creased from where Louis has crushed it in his fist. It's an incredibly satisfying sight.

"So," Niall says from somewhere near Louis' left ear, "I've worked out that she only stops talking when Harry's got his dimples out."

Louis snorts childishly. "Sounds a bit rude that," he smirks, but the upward tilt of his lips slacken when he notices Laura watching Harry from the other side of the room. "Well, that's Harry. Always the fucking charmer."

"Sure,” Niall agrees easily. “But I doubt he was trying to charm her when he was telling her how he actually wanted _you_."

Louis swivels to stare at him. "What?"

Niall nods, barely containing a grin. "Before you arrived, I overheard them in the kitchen."

"Were you spying?" Louis asks in lieu of a celebratory scream.

"I'm just telling you what I heard," Niall shrugs. "He was a bit more elegant about it, I’ll give him that, but you get the gist. Oh and by the way, you two owe me for earlier." 

Louis pauses. They could both pretend he doesn't know what Niall's referring to, but however uncomfortable Louis may feel about the sanctity or otherwise of his secret, there's really no point. And besides, if Niall knew what was going on in Harry's bedroom, Louis really does owe him. Maybe his share of the profits from their last album would cover it. The proceeds from a record full of carefully chosen euphemisms and pleasantries seems kind of appropriate.

But Louis is still Louis, and he simply smiles congenially and says, "I most certainly do not."

Niall laughs easily.

In truth, Louis has always been a bit scared of Niall. His easy acceptance of people and their life choices makes Louis nervous. It's easy for someone so tolerant and carefree to assume that everyone else is exactly the same. And he's more observant than he's given credit for. These things are a terrifying combination for a person with a secret.

And he's always held an irrational grudge from that one time at judge's houses when Niall made an offhand joke about him and Harry getting together. As though that one flippant comment and the ensuing laughter, which only seemed to corroborate the apparently unanimous sentiment of how utterly ridiculous _that_ idea would be, had put a sudden fatalistic end to Louis' dreams. 

Louis has sometimes thought about how he should really get Niall kicked out of the band for that one, but seeing as how all of his attempts at being mad at him have only ever failed spectacularly, he figures the shitty little harbinger will be around a while longer.

Witnessing Niall's sparkly _I’m a little shit_ smile now, he's starting to wonder if Niall has actually been their biggest supporter all along.


	8. Day six: Neon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiii! This chapter took a lot longer than I thought but it's here now, with a bit of everything - angst, fluff and smut. Hope you like it.

**Harry**

It's a cold morning but Louis looks warm as he barrels into the studio 40 minutes late, balancing a cup of tea in his hand and singing, _"No the party don't start 'til I walk iiiinnn."_

Harry finds himself smiling and knows he won't be stopping anytime soon.

"It already started," Liam informs Louis before Harry and Zayn can finish the first line of the chorus.

Louis ruffles Liam's hair, eyes lit with amusement. "Then you and I must be going to very different parties."

Liam looks at Niall. " _They're grown ups,_ he says. _Just text them,_ he says."

"Heeey!" Harry defends. "I'll have you know that I was actually here before you, Liam."

"And you should be grateful I'm not much later," Louis puts in, as though this argument is somehow as equally robust at Harry's. "You'd have been deprived of my company a lot longer if Harry hadn't woken me up."

Zayn snorts, Niall smirks and Liam frowns, confused.

"With a text," Harry adds. "I woke him with a text. I wasn't, like, with him or anything." It's sadly true, and Zayn mocks him with a sad pouty face behind Liam's back like he knows exactly what's going on. 

Harry makes a mental note to speak to Louis about it later. He's not worried, in fact his pride is very seriously excited about the possibility that Louis _has_ said something. Personally, he'd shout about it from the rooftops, but he should probably check that they're on the same page first.

Louis waves to the sound technicians working away in the corner of the room and sits down next to Harry, discarding his takeaway tea in favour of the cup Harry's made him. 

Louis smiles at him with a soft, "Cheers Haz."

The words sound as casual as they would have done a week ago, and if you didn't know to look for it, you might even miss the tint of a blush on his cheeks. But Harry, realising that he's been too slow to register the pressure Louis has been under, has resolved to never miss a beat where Louis is concerned ever again. It helps, of course, that he's been watching Louis' face for years, and that his blush is Harry's absolute favourite thing.

If Louis doesn't know by now that Harry would give him the world, then he'll cotton on soon enough. Some might say that Harry should be a little bit terrified because Louis knows all the ways to get him to admit it, but the thought only fills him with a peaceful sort of bliss. The kind he gets when he thinks about their retirement, a cottage in Devon and some pet ducks.

He _wants_ to admit it, but for now he feels his grin widen and watches Louis' blush deepen, and knows that it will be enough just to convince Louis that he deserves dreams of his own. And as much as he'd like for them to include him, he loves Louis enough to accept it if they don't. 

"You're welcome," he replies automatically, taking Louis in, from the delicate fingers that play with the edges of his hair to the way his tshirt cuts low at the neckline, showing a hint of blank ink script and the delicious bump of his collarbones. The deep burgundy makes his eyes dark and smokey, and the sight is enough to send tiny tingles down Harry's spine.

He's used to catching himself staring at Louis, he's practiced in the art and it's never a big surprise, but it feels more intimate now that he knows what it's like to have his hands on Louis, to have Louis' hands on him, and more recently, to have Louis look him in the eye afterwards and know that they're okay. It makes his face heat. 

Louis licks his lips. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Harry mumbles, distracted by the dart of Louis' tongue and the heat in his gaze. It's only been a few hours and Harry feels desperate for him already.

After a few moments of mutual appreciation, Harry notices Niall smirking straight at them from behind his guitar as he strums Fireproof.

Harry clears his throat and his mind of filthy thoughts, and affects an over-the-top look of concern at Louis. "I was really worried when you weren't here on time. I mean, it's so unlike you—" 

Louis cuts him off with a pinch to the arm. "Fuck off, loser."

Harry should have known that if Louis was beautiful before then he'd be absolutely stunning with a reason to be pissed off. But in reality, Louis' huffing is all for show because his smile is audible. He's really happy this morning, face bright with a lightness Harry hasn't seen for weeks, maybe months.

Lips curving on a playful grin, Harry tucks a finger under burgundy cotton and strokes over the warm skin of Louis' lower back. Instantly, Louis falls into the touch, eyes flitting aimlessly around the room, pretending to pay attention to whatever Liam's saying but religiously looking back at Harry, catching occasionally on the jeans Harry had wriggled into this morning. It's so reminiscent of all the light touches that have come before, but it's closest to the one from last night, when they may still have been hiding but at least they'd stopped hiding from each other.

It's likely that Harry will be called up to record soon, so he makes the most of the time he has by stretching his legs out lazily and enjoying the way Louis watches the movement out of the corner of his eye and squirms.

Louis is a gorgeous fidget and Harry has to look away before he grabs Louis into his lap, knees either side of his thighs, and kisses the breath out of him. He keeps his eyes trained on his music sheets but he's still hyper aware of Louis' heat at his side as he turns to Zayn and pokes him hard in the ribs. 

And it's only because Harry is so attuned to Louis' voice, ready to listen at the first sound off his lips, that he hears him whisper, "Lookin' good Zaynie. Gay suits you."

But that’s not even the real surprise. Zayn's reaction is what makes Harry snap his head around.

"Careful, Lou," Zayn rushes out under his breath. His voice is serious and laden with an uncharacteristic urgency, as he's called up to the mic. "That arsehole Bradley is around here somewhere."

Frowning, Harry looks over just in time to see the smile die on Louis' lips. His fingers are suddenly white around his favourite mug. And just like that, all playfulness is zapped from the room.

The next moment, Bradley walks in, sharp suited and mouth set in a grim line. He's tall and not much older than them, and he has the look of someone who's generally dissatisfied with life. Despite that, he's proven himself motivated enough to act like an ambitious little twat most of the time. Added to that is the day Harry often forgets, the day Bradley had held him back after a rehearsal and invited him home with no small dose of _you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours._

Harry's never liked him for obvious reasons, but Louis is looking at him like he really fucking _hates_ him.

Harry knows Louis' anger, knows how to settle it and how to stoke it, but he doesn't think he's ever seen the black look Louis is sending Bradley right now.

Unfortunately the ferocity of his gaze must be tangible because Bradley looks right at him. "You're late, Tomlinson."

His voice is so cutting that Niall's strumming stops, and Louis gets up, turns his back and heads over to the sound engineers with a heavy silence.

Before he can get there, Bradley stops him. "In the booth, Louis. Now."

Harry almost can't believe it when Louis' shoulders slump, pulling in on himself like a dying star and heading where he's bid, and Harry hates himself for probably missing dozens of situations like this in the past. 

He jumps to his feet. "Wait! Louis—"

But Louis doesn't look Harry's way once as he walks into the studio, and his voice is a warning when he says, "It's fine."

Harry can do nothing but burn holes in the glass as Bradley follows Louis, tells Zayn to leave, who frowns but takes the headphones off that he's only just put on. When he walks out into the control room, his eyes lock on Harry and he purposely leaves the door ajar.

Harry blinks and nods appreciatively as he moves as close as he can without drawing attention to himself, and just in time to hear Bradley say, “Tell me about you and Eleanor."

Louis laughs, forced and maybe even a little fearful around the edges. “I feel like you're about to tell me. Isn't that the way these conversations go?"

"For fucks sake, Louis. Are you even trying to make it work?"

Through the crack in the door, Harry sees Louis' jaw twitch.

"You have to stick to the plan, Louis. There's a reason we've put all this in place and it's to help _you._ "

Behind him, Harry hears Liam saying, "Is there something going on I don't know about?" and Zayn murmuring something in return. 

It means that Harry misses Louis' response but whatever it is, it makes Bradley angry. “What the hell’s gotten into you? You're acting like a fucking asshole today."

"Well it seems to be the day for it," Louis says airily, features sliding into that hot bitch face he sometimes wears. 

Harry loves that face, but he can also see underneath the facade, where Louis' eyes are flint and crumbling mortar. 

"Louis, he's starting to think you won't fix this. That you _can't_ , and that's a very dangerous place for you to be."

Louis flinches. It's such a tiny movement, but it's there. His eyes blink quick, hands clamping down on his mug, tea shaking.

Harry's fists are clenching at his sides before he realises that he’s on the other side of the door and isn’t intimidating anyone. That's when he decides enough's enough.

~

**Louis**

He's been the focus of so many lectures like this, the same sticks and the same stones, that they should be losing their impact by now. Instead, each one hacks a bit deeper, another blow that eats away at him.

It reminds him of nights spent playing Tomb Raider in his bedroom. A cliff-top fall and a spike pit, quicksand and ice, a bat and a bear and a bullet. A life bar bleeding away to nothing.

Louis was just starting to wonder what the hell he did to deserve it this time, when Bradley finally puts his cards on the table and says, "You weren't meant to be alone at that party last night."

_Right,_ Louis thinks tiredly. He probably should have seen this coming.

"You certainly shouldn't have been seen leaving alone like you'd—" 

Bradley cuts himself off and Louis wants to bark a laugh and ask, _Like what? Like I tumbled out of bloke's bedroom after a good fuck?_

He could try and come up with a palatable lie but there’s no point busting out the big guns for Bradley. He'll need those later, when Malarkey — seeing that if he wants something done he’ll have to do it himself — comes for his blood instead.

Finding his words again, Bradley points his index finger at Louis. "You know the drill. What were you thinking?" he demands. "What _are_ you thinking?"

Two very important questions, Louis thinks as he puts his tea mug down with a sigh.

Louis somehow doubts Bradley would like the answer to the first. The second, well… what Louis is actually thinking is that today, at the very least, his bed was never made to be left. And now he's thinking of all the things he wants to say to Bradley, to Malarkey, to the world that doesn't play fair so why the hell should he. All those unspoken words, stacked and ready for saying, but never said.

If Louis' honest, he's thinking that maybe Bradley is right. He _does_ know the drill, and perhaps he's made mistakes. Loving Harry being one.

But he's so bored of feeling gross on the inside, scalp tightening whenever one of Malarkey's drones appears to get in his face and make him feel pathetic. He's fed up of Bradley's unsmiling face, his totally uninterested concern for Louis and his every move, his scorn and the expensive shoes on his feet. Louis wonders if he ever thinks about how he's gotten rich off Louis' apparent inability to do his job.

He could almost have forgotten the good mood he woke up in, if it weren't for the man responsible waiting to make everything better right beyond the obviously open door.

Then Harry comes in, because he's reliably protective and lovely and awesome, quick to sell himself short and the first to defend a friend. He just walks right in, throws himself to the wolves, completely unprepared to get caught in the crossfire of Louis' life. 

“Can we go over this bridge now?" he asks, walking toward Louis like he's the only one in the room. He's remarkably convincing at acting calm but Louis can see the effort it takes to hold back his anger. "I want to try that harmony we were talking about and we're tight on studio time.”

Louis, apparently less of an actor and a bit spun out, only manages to stutter out, “Uh, yeah, sure mate.”

"Excuse me," Bradley pipes up. "I'm talking to Louis here."

Harry looks at him blankly. "And now I'm here too. Didn't you come here to give us both a bollocking?" 

Bradley narrows his eyes. "Why would I?" he asks suspiciously. 

And that's a red flag if ever Louis saw one. "Harry, don't," he warns, feeling his whole body tense up.

“Harry," Bradley interjects, voice terse. "What did you mean by that?"

“Your boss is looking for you," Harry simply replies, much to Louis' relief. "Called just now and said you’re missing an important meeting.”

Bradley’s fingers freeze on his phone. “I don’t… I don’t have a meeting.”

“Well he says you do and he sounds pretty fucked off, so…” Harry trails off, a secret smile on his lips as his words spur Bradley into action and have him heading towards the door. "Doesn’t sound like he likes it when people are late. There are a lot of things he doesn't like about people. Probably a few things he wouldn't like to hear about you, actually."

Louis frowns, completely lost. It's obvious Harry has something on Bradley, but Louis has no clue what it is.

It clearly has Bradley riled though because he stops on his way out to look over his shoulder, face ignited with irritation and indignation. "You better watch yourself," he tells Harry before walking out the door.

Through the glass, Louis can see him shoving passed Niall, leaving all the three of the boys looking after him with baffled expressions on their faces.

In the aftermarth, the room is quiet but too bright. Harry is moving closer, reaching out for Louis like he wants to wrap him up, and though Louis wants that above all else, he shies away, quickly moving to the other side of the room and pulling at a few random wires that he’ll get shouted at for messing with later.

Anything to avoid the hurt frown on Harry’s face as he asks, "You okay?"

"Always," Louis mutters, forgetting he shouldn’t really be playing with electricity as he toys with a few sockets.

"Lou, come on," Harry entreats. "I know something's going on."

Louis can't help but scoff a little. “Splendid observation.”

Harry rolls his eyes, pauses consideringly, then exhales softly. "Is it always like that?"

Louis looks at him. Really looks at him. He doesn't understand, but then Louis never expected he would. He’s getting there, putting the pieces together, and Louis could fill in the blanks but he's not sure he's quite ready to find out how much reputational collateral Harry is willing to expend on him.

Louis remains silent, knowing that he can pretend to be mute all he likes but he's probably only got about two seconds before Harry’s patience wavers. It doesn’t make answering any easier, doesn’t ease the tight band round his chest. It’s a harsh reminder that he’s never needed a noose around his neck to feel suffocated.

Somewhere on the fringe of Louis’ vision, Harry is scratching at his temple, breathing deep. “Why did you flinch away from me?” 

Louis laughs helplessly. “Flinch away like we've got something to hide?" he ventures, flat and hollow, because it’s fucking obvious isn’t it?

“Yeah, like that,” Harry confirms, unfazed, and Louis’ head snaps up to look at him. His eyes are shot through with hurt.

“I’m sorry,” Louis whispers, not convinced Harry will hear, let alone believe that he means it. Which he does, wholeheartedly. He spares a look in the direction of the control room, now completely empty, and finds the bravery to say, “There’s stuff you need to understand, Haz.”

“Okay, but whatever it is, I want to be with you, Lou.”

Louis’ chest tingles, a rush of emotion, deep and easy and right. But the elation he always imagined he’d feel if this day ever came, has been stripped away by Bradley’s gutting reminder of the thin ice Louis walks on. And now he feels like his whole body is crumpling up like a sheet of discarded lyrics in someone’s fist.

These are the sorts of words he's wanted to hear from Harry for as long as he’s known him, but now they feel stained. Dark and sticky and hollow. It all feels… ruined, and Louis genuinely thinks he’s going to be sick, or retch up heart-hollowing sobs. 

It's hard to think when all he can hear is his own pounding heart, and all he can see is Harry's soft expression, eyes mint green with adoration. In the end, he falls back on the truth. “It's not possible," he says, shaking his head.

The words drop and shatter on the ground and Harry’s eyes snap down as if to evaluate the damage they've done. It's obvious when he looks back up, eyes searching Louis' face, that he's made no sense of what Louis has said, or what that means for them. 

Louis closes his eyes so he doesn't have to see the long, measuring stare Harry is giving him. He focuses on the solid wall behind his back and nothing else.

"The last couple days, I—" Harry's voice breaks a little. "I thought you wanted me too.”

On the other side of Louis' clenched eyelids, Harry is doing something. Giving up, maybe. This is Harry, so it's unlikely, but it would be far easier for Louis if he did. 

He hasn’t. “You do, don’t you?”

Louis' world shakes around him, but he says nothing because Harry is worth more than the words he'll never say. If only he could make Harry understand that his happiness is like a tower of cards and he never knows when Grant Malarkey will throw a stone at it. More importantly, that he won't hesitate to throw stones at Harry too.

Louis forces his eyes open because it’s really important that Harry and his stubborn brain understand this. “They wouldn’t let it happen,” he tells him, rubbing away the goosebumps from his own arms, voice a touch shakier than he’d like, but ten times steadier than he feels. “They ruin everything.”

Harry watches him quietly.

As he does, Louis tries to work out how to say what he needs to, through a throat that feels like it’s being crushed in a vice. “I— I don’t know where to start but there are reasons why this, _us_ , can't happen, like, long term. You need to know the reasons… for that."

There's a long pause and Louis starts to get nervous, then he hears the low rumble of Harry's voice again. "Okay,” he says simply, “but then I'm going to tell you all the reasons that we can."

The words work like a light inside of Louis, like fluorescent highlighter on a blank page. He clears his throat, tears itching his face.

“Because we can,” Harry says steadily, both sure and reassuring, and he looks so certain. He's a room away but it still feels like they’re on the same side. 

The adrenalin in Louis’ system has burnt right through and he doesn’t have the energy to lie, so even if he wanted to insist that this is nothing — means nothing — because they're going to end up fighting or giving each other the silent treatment from opposite sides of the Atlantic, then he couldn’t. 

"It is possible,” Harry insists, stepping closer and moving his head to make sure he catches Louis’ eyes, like what he’s about to say is just as important as Louis’ warnings earlier. “Please believe that I’ll prove it to you."

Louis does listen then. He’s never _actually_ heard Harry beg before. Not really. Not for more than a red key-shaped Tangfastic or a quick cuddle. And he sounds so sure that Louis almost believes him. 

"I'll listen," he agrees, choosing his words carefully. Louis has dealt with this his own way for so long, he’s imagined a scenario where there are no other options. The way Harry spoke to Bradley today is proof enough that possibly, just possibly, there might be. “But not today. Another time, yeah?”

Harry smiles, and Louis finds himself pulled into a cushion of warm skin and hard muscle. “Sure, but in the meantime, do you want me to punch someone?” Harry asks, thumbing over Louis' lower lip. It's so deadpan, Louis only knows he’s joking by the twitch at the corner of his lips. 

He’s never thought about Malarkey on the receiving end of Harry's first. 

He’s thinking about it now.

“Don't tempt me,” Louis laughs. "Seriously, just shut up or I'll say yes."

Harry's smile turns into a grin, so close he’s just a blur of curls and emerald green. He rubs a gentle thumb between Louis’ eyebrows and dutifully shuts up.

Louis’ mind on the other hand, is loud, and it's running wild. Harry’s strength is infectious and Louis is starting to think that he doesn't need Malarkey’s help, his hand-me-downs and handicaps.

He's slowly realising that he can't keep holding his breath, while he waits for the world to change.

~

The room is dark, granted. But Louis is still a little offended when Harry steps into tonight's room at the Guesthouse, looking all around, including _passed Louis_.

"Disappointed?" Louis questions, hands making a vague gesture to his naked self.

"Oh yeah," Harry rolls his eyes sarcastically. "You're so disappointing that I'm always at least half hard when I'm around you and ready to go off any time you touch me."

"Always a pleasure," Louis smirks. "For me and for your little German friend, Henr—"

"Alright!" Harry interrupts, stepping into the dark room, eyes trying hard to adjust. "There’s a lot less colour in here than the theme ‘Neon Night’ suggested.”

"That's what you think," Louis grins, holding up his hands, freshly dipped in a tray of neon pink paint, and wiggling his fingers at Harry. 

Louis looks from his own hands, glowing a vibrant magenta, to glance up at Harry through his eyelashes and Harry seems to catch the heat in his gaze, even though he can’t see much else. They’re back in the room from the first night, though you wouldn’t know in the almost pitch black.

It's dark and black-lit, and the body paints in front of Louis glow fluorescently, lively and bold like a thrumming pulse.

Quite honestly, Louis is buzzing. He can’t wait to be marked up with evidence of Harry’s touch. God, think of the _handprints._

“Clothes. Off,” Louis instructs, drawing a finger slowly down the middle of his own chest to his belly button, leaving a line of pink.

Teeth gleaming, Harry grins, dimples turned on, and somewhere in the process of tshirt on to tshirt off, he seems to go from interested to desperate.

Louis would be there too if it weren’t for the fact that all he can see is a bright orange imprint of someone else’s hand on Harry’s bare chest.

“Looks as though you’ve brought in some colour of your own,” Louis comments, entirely unimpressed, his envy greener than Harry's eyes.

“Huh?” Harry blurts out. “Oh shit, that’s not… it’s not—” 

“Finish a fucking sentence for once in your life, Styles,” Louis sighs, hiding a grin. "Well, go on then. Fuck off and find Mr Orange.” 

Harry watches as Louis thumbs a pink line over the curve of his left hipbone. "No, I—”

“Relax, H,” Louis chuckles, because while it’s amusing to watch Harry try and wipe away at the paint on his chest, Louis knows he hasn't been slipping into other rooms on his way here. “Reuban been copping a feel?”

  
“No,” Harry says, relaxing, eyes glinting in the dark. “The umm… man on the door. He’s quite friendly.”

“I see,” Louis nods, stepping up to Harry and placing his palm directly over the orange handprint, covering it, replacing it. “I’ll remember that next time I’m bored and you’re late.”

It’s too black to see Harry’s face get jealous but Louis can’t miss the rumble of discontent that vibrates it's way from Harry’s chest to his hand. Before Louis can see it coming, Harry is turning him, pressing up against his back and walking them both towards the paint, then bending Louis over so his chest is pressed down against the wooden table.

“Yesss,” Louis sighs happily as Harry leans over him, crotch against Louis’ ass, lips kissing at the sensitive dip behind his ear and smelling his skin.

“Truth is,” Harry says gruffly, biting roughly at his nape, “you don’t want him, do you? Don’t want his hands on you.”

Louis whines, hips wiggling, fidgeting as a fire lights in his belly. “No,” he whispers, as Harry drags the truth out of him with the sweep of plump lips down his spine.

“No,” Harry agrees, and Louis feels his smile against his back. “You want _my_ hands.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Louis sees Harry reach across the table for the paint trays. It has the added benefit of bringing his upper body completely flush against Louis’ back, and his chest is so hot and broad that Louis finds himself going completely loose, breath sighing out of him in a happy whoosh.

Harry’s hand comes back a brilliant blue and he doesn’t waste time before lifting away to give himself space, settling his clean hand on Louis shoulder, and then planting his other hand on Louis’ ass.

Louis gasps as he imagines the bright scorch mark of Harry's palm on his ass cheek. The hot primal noise Harry makes at the sight is pure animal, and Louis’ blood rushes hot, hips kicking forward, the head of his cock rubbing up against the underside of the table.

There’s a shuffle and the sound of a zip, bare skin grinding against his bum and Harry’s forehead coming to rest at the top of his back. The line of Harry’s cock is thick and hard and slipping in the groove between Louis cheeks. Louis isn't sure his obsession with Harry’s dick will ever get old.

“Fuck, Lou, you should fucking see this,” Harry breathes out as he rears back to enjoy his little work of art again, absently running a finger from hip to hip, probably along that line between paler skin and tan that Louis has carried since summer ended.

Harry tucks his fingers into the crease, brushing his entrance.

"Do it," Louis begs. "You can just, ah _fuck,_ just go for it. I'm ready." 

When Harry stays silent, continuing his slow exploration of Louis’ ass, Louis whips his head around with a frown. “Harry!” he snaps. “Put it in. All of it. Right now.” 

Harry just smiles teasingly.

Louis' eyes narrow but then they start rolling back from the slick breach of Harry’s thumb. “Come on," Louis goads. "Get on with it. You're not that impressive."

It’s incredible how effective that sentence turns out to be, and Louis would congratulate himself on a job well done if he weren’t moaning out at the quick pump of two fingers and a purposeful nudge against his prostate.

“Evidently not,” Harry comments as he makes a point of wrapping his free hand around Louis’ achingly hard dick. 

Louis has enough presence of mind to hope that Harry's not using the blue hand, before he’s distracted again by Harry’s cock, this time prodding at his hole and pressing in. Together they whine as Harry slides to the hilt, deliciously tight, and Louis feels full, then fuller, sparks skittering through his body as Harry starts steady rocks that are strong enough to nudge Louis up the table until his toes barely brush the ground. 

He vaguely wonders if this was the exhilaration sheltered 19th century women felt at their first taste of pleasure. He feels wanton like that — like skirts up round the waist and white-gloves dirty in the grass. And maybe, though he’s reluctant to admit it, his dick lust is getting the better of him.

All the while, he's slowly losing the plot, Harry’s hips punch little _uh_ s and _ah_ s from his lungs, dick tapping away at Louis’ sweet spot, more hits than misses. 

Just as Louis starts to feel the molten coil in his belly pull taut and mutters happily, "Gonna come," Harry pulls out, leaving him empty and protesting, glaring over his shoulder.

"No, you're not," Harry says as though Louis knows this as well as he does.

With a truly devastating smile, Harry moves him, turning him over and laying him back down.

From here Louis can drink Harry in. His ivory skin sketched with black, biceps clenching, bottom lip pinched between his teeth. His eyes are bright like blades of grass sparkling in the sun. They're hooded and craving and they get Louis hot, make him draw his knees up, lips already parted as Harry lunges down to kiss him urgently, the slow build giving way to a wildfire in his veins.

Harry's hand is refreshed with paint, blazing blue and wrapping around Louis hip as he re-enters him, driving home with a smack of skin and a groan. God yes, Louis wants in on the fun too. He fumbles behind himself for the pink paint and covers his hand with it. He looks back at Harry triumphantly, warmed by how their smiles match, and slaps his palm down against Harry’s chest. _Mine, mine, mine._

“Mine,” he states, writhing under Harry’s thrusts instinctively, gazing appreciatively at his mark glowing on Harry's pec.

“Yeah,” Harry nods, eyes wide and earnest, reaching up to cradle Louis’ jaw and caress it blue.

It's so intense, so honest, that Louis whimpers and his eyes fall shut. He'll remember that look on Harry's face forever, like his eyes drifting shut are the clicking capture of a picture, saved and never deleted.

Opening his eyes again, he tries to say everything he needs to with one look. They've always been pretty good at having whole conversations without words, but now it feels important.

"Yeah?" Louis asks.

Harry exhales shakily, "Yeah."

Louis beams. "Alright then, fuck me harder."

And Harry does, with solid strokes, forceful snaps of his hips, hand sliding from Louis' jaw to his throat, thumb and fingers a loose ring at the base of his neck. They press too light to choke, but they hint at the possibility, and Louis feels like he could explode from the inside out. There's Harry and there's pleasure, and there's the constant assault on all the sensitive nerves inside him, and Harry's hand, Harry's face, and as Harry clenches his jaw, face a flash of happy pain the second before he releases with a quiet cry, Louis feels Harry's ecstasy as if it's his own. 

Harry relaxes into the quick hits of pleasure, over and over, and rocks with each of them, moving Louis with him in waves of forward and back, and something like an echo of the promise he made earlier. 

_'Then I'm going to tell you all the reasons that we can…_ _Because we can.'_

With so much stimulation, Louis can't hold back either, and he jerks, cock twitching as he comes all over Harry’s hand and dapples both their bodies too. 

His head tips back, thunking against solid wood. He feels shattered in every sense, bone tired and split into thousands of tiny pieces. But he also feels… quenched.

"You're a mess," is Harry's cheerful appraisal.

Harry shouldn't be able to use words. Certainly not when Louis is feeling like he may never recover. He consoles himself that Harry came first and has a time advantage.

"Not very gentlemanly, that."

"Huh?" Harry laughs, bemused.

"The only reason you can fucking talk is because you came first. You've had more time to bounce back than I have."

Harry smirks. 

"After I blew your mind, I mean," Louis adds, voice weighted so Harry knows he really should agree with him.

"No," Harry corrects him easily, patting over his chest and mixing blue with pink and looking like a fucking dream, "my mind and body are still intact."

"Yes," Louis says tolerantly. "Because you came first."

Harry laughs, puts on a serious, placating expression. "Sure babe."

"Don't fucking _babe_ me," Louis protests even though his face is heating up. "Not after you called me a mess."

"Well you are," Harry says, pointing smugly at all the neon blue smudges littering Louis' body.

One by one, he points them out. Jaw, neck, left bicep, hips. And yes, Louis' dick is bright blue. But he doesn't have it in him to care because Harry is dipping a palm in the leftover paint only to swirl it around Louis' belly button in big circles, mixing it all up with the come that's landed there, and he looks pretty into it.

Harry's not much better off really. Louis has staked his claim on Harry ten times over at least. Each finger print the unique mark of Louis' love. 

He's too close to saying it, right on the precipice of giving voice to that beautiful dangerous word. If he looks at Harry now, he won't need an accidental trip or an unbalanced misstep, because Harry's big clear eyes will be the soft push he doesn't need.

You see, they're different, Harry and him. Louis doesn’t do well with sincere, straight-faced confessions. Pack the truth around a joke or some pitch-perfect sarcasm and he’s right at home, but Harry is not the same. He’s braver with his feelings, braver than Louis will ever be. He tatts them on his skin for the world to see, even those he doesn’t trust to interpret them right, and he doesn’t stop there amongst those he does. 

But for Louis to speak about how his skin warms the first minute of every day that includes Harry… well, he just can't, not yet. 

But he does want to, and he promised Harry that he'd listen. 

_'Please believe that I’ll prove it to you.'_

At this point, Louis is almost ready to believe anything Harry tells him.

~

Later, Louis decides against leaving through the back and heads to the front door instead.

"Oi, excuse me. Yeah, new person, hi."

The blond kid smiles at him. "Lou, right? Hi, I'm Matt."

"It's Louis actually, but whatever," Louis says quickly, not to be distracted from his purpose. "Do me a favour, yeah?" 

The boy's eyes widen. "Umm, yeah course."

Louis pats him on the shoulder and gives him a friendly enough smile. "Don't touch Harry again."

Matt blinks then nods nervously.

"Good lad," Louis says, smiling wide.


	9. Day seven (part 1): Rust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And we're getting there! It's nearly the end of the story so you may be confused to see that I've added another chapter to the grand total.
> 
> Basically, it turns out that day seven is a bit if a rollercoaster for all involved and it got LONG. So I've split the day into two chapters.
> 
> As a reader, I like to have angst and resolution as close together as possible (and this is a happy ending story) so while this chapter doesn't finish on too much of an angsty cliffhanger, I'm aiming to post the next chapter in a couple of days (it's pretty much written). Then there will be a final chapter of more fluff and smut.
> 
> And a final note to say that there is part of this chapter where it looks like Louis might sleep with someone else at the Guesthouse. He doesn't and it's pretty obvious early on that nothing is going to happen, but I wanted to warn/reassure.
> 
> And a final final note to say thank you if you're reading this!

On Friday, Louis sleeps through the watercolour sunrise Harry wakes to, and in doing so, misses whatever early morning disaster has whipped up a riot and put it in Harry’s eyes. 

Louis won't find out what's responsible for that just yet. In fact, he won't find out until around the time that Harry discovers a secret of his own. It's not a big one, but it's significant all the same. And true, because Louis is, and always has been, at his weakest on a Friday.

For now, Louis gets up and claws his way out into the October chill for another unscheduled work day. At rehearsals, Harry's absent. Not in the sense that he's not there, because physically he's present, shipshape and beautiful, arguing with someone on the phone in the corner of the room.

Bouts of temper are rare for Harry, but the symptoms are the same as with anyone else. Louis has always kind of liked it on him. He gets this twitch in his jaw and a caveman frown, the line of his back going taut as he drags his free hand through his hair roughly. Louis is actually a bit disappointed when Harry leaves the room, taking his sexy cross face and raised voice with him.

A little while later, Louis is helping Liam work out how they're going to avoid getting brained by moving set pieces, when a loud noise startles them both. It takes a moment, but Louis soon realises that something is being smashed to pieces in the room next door. Then Harry is re-emerging, phoneless and clearly seething, and Louis feels a bit sorry for whoever was on the other end of the line.

"Shit," Zayn mutters under his breath, then moves so his mouth is closer to Louis' ear. "You're gonna have to calm him down or the whole morning will be a fucking waste of time."

Louis smirks. He likes that he's been given this responsibility. It's always been his, but now Harry is his too, and it means so much more. 

He knows exactly what to do, but first he takes an indulgent second to admire the red flush on Harry's cheeks and the moody purse of his lips, to ready a grin and let it start to dance on his face, delighted and so fucking fond.

Then Harry's stormy eyes catch Louis' happy ones, and Louis' smug smile falters halfway onto his lips.

Instead of seeing Harry's anger fizzle out, Louis watches horrified as Harry's eyes storm even harder at the sight of him. And suddenly, with a hook tugging at his heart and a scoop hollowing his belly, Louis realises that the person Harry's actually angry with, is him.

Mouth twisting, Harry looks away so quickly that Louis wonders if he's even bothered registering him at all, and Louis is left with pins and needles on his skin as he watches Harry smack his gum and be happy and playful with literally everyone but him. 

It hurts like a bitch, and he doesn't even know what the fuck's gone wrong.

As the minutes crawl by, Louis gets the distinct impression that Harry's being pleasant and professional and charming _despite_ him. Which is particularly gutting when normally he's all of those things _for_ him.

Right from the get go, every note Harry sings is incredible. From the quiet sighing low notes, to the belted high ones that make the other boys loud and animated. It's incredibly inconvenient that Louis has a competence kink.

Harry sings through rehearsal as though everything thrown at him is a piece of piss. Like he's not seething with anger but focused, confident and… like everything's okay. Like everything's okay when it most certainly is not.

He's always been this gorgeous unapologetic paradox. That warm breeze that makes you shiver, the lick of heat against cold skin that muddles your brain. Like all those winter evenings when Louis would sit in the draft of Lottie's hairdryer as it pushed hot air on his goosebumps, only to make them spread. That feeling reminds him of home, and that's what makes this particular metaphor all the more heartbreakingly accurate.

Louis can't sit on the sidelines fixing a mic that isn't broken forever. Eventually, Zayn gets fed up and drags him onto his feet to shove another mic in his hand.

Louis swallows, avoids Harry's eyes and steps away from the wall.

He'll go fucking wild if anyone criticises his performance today.

~

It's not hard to corner Harry at the end of the session.

He's been chatting away to one of the team, hoping that Louis will be forced to leave before him. He probably thought Louis wouldn't want to make awkward excuses about hanging back. 

Harry has clearly underestimated how invested Louis is in having this out, how desperately he wants Harry to laugh and tell him it's all been a wind up and that they're fine, because Harry promised. He _promised_.

So he watches and waits and wonders, but for the life of him, Louis can't work out what Harry has to be upset about. 

Last night, they were good. And Louis was about ready to knock some walls down and tell Harry everything. And Harry, well, he was going to take the bad, smooth out the barbs, and make it so they could scramble over the rubble to something better. At least, that's what Louis had thought, but maybe when they had showered before leaving the Guesthouse, they'd washed more than neon body paint down the drain. Perhaps the promises they made to each other had seeped away along with their blue-pink handprints.

Louis watches Harry say goodbye to the sound tech with a smile and witnesses the exact moment he senses someone else nearby. 

Louis almost goes to reassure him. _It's just me, Haz._ But Harry already knows that, because it's _Louis_ that's causing the long line of his body to stiffen.

"Harry."

Harry doesn't turn and he doesn't relax and Louis' chest hurts where his heart is

“Can I help you?” Harry asks, knowing full well that he fucking can.

He's angry, beyond angry, and it's such a rarity that Louis almost stops. Almost.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Harry?" he asks desperately, voice splintered and strained raw from keeping his mouth shut and his eyes dry all morning.

The cool flinty look on Harry's face is terrifying as he takes a deep steadying breath like he's preparing himself for something. "Did you tell them?”

Louis shakes his head, confused. " _What_? Tell who? What the hell are you talking about?"

Harry's lips draw into a hard line, his voice true like the ring of crystal as he slowly, purposely, repeats, "Did you tell them?"

"Who?! Are you talking about Zayn because he doesn't know anything for sure and—?"

"No, Louis," Harry growls out. "You know fucking well who. And you know what too."

This is really happening then. It's not a joke. It's as real and harsh as the knots that tug at Louis' stomach, and the precarious fingertip grasp he has on what's left of his calm slips away to smash on the floor.

“I don't fucking know who or what, Harry!" he cries, rushing a step closer like he'll be able to read Harry's mind if he's near enough. "I honestly don't know what you want me to say! I tell people shit all the time, and most of it just to fuck with them, you know that. 

"Yesterday I told the press office there was a euphemism in that last media release, and… and last week I told wardrobe that I won't feel safe until they've threaded kevlar into all of our stage outfits. And neither took me very seriously, and not even Liam cared when he found out, so… 

"So, are you talking about Paul? Because, honestly? I don't know what the fuck I could have told him to make you such a fucking wanker. I swear the last text I probably sent him was to say I wanted Cheerios for breakfast." His fingers curl in the old worn cotton covering Harry's chest, the thred-bare nod to what was once a band shirt Louis had bought him for his birthday. "Just… look, Harry please tell me what the fuck is going on, because last night we were fine."

In the time it takes for Louis to rattle out his little speech, eyes getting wetter, voice rising steadily higher, some of Harry's anger seems to have faded away. His eyes are still sharp and suspicious, but there's something else, something Louis couldn't see before. 

Hurt. 

Fucking hell, what on earth does he think Louis has done to him?

"I mean, weren't we?" Louis asks, hating that he's doubting what he knows they had, but he doesn't think anyone would blame him. "We were fine, right?"

Harry's eyes drop, a slip of uncertainty tapping away at his conviction. “I'm not talking about Paul or wardrobe or whatever," he says, a little quieter but only a shade warmer than arctic. "I mean the press."

_What?!_

Louis feels very tired all of a sudden. And weak, because it's Friday. And almost definitely slightly heartbroken because whatever Harry truly believes Louis is capable of saying to hurt him, it must be pretty fucking bad.

Harry continues to look at him with a perfectly blank expression. "Did you tell them about me and… the club?"

Louis freezes, staring up at Harry. At who he thought was Harry. "Are you seriously asking me this?" 

"You're the only one that knows.”

“Right," Louis says, hollow and cold, stumbling back. "Just me and a club full of people. But good to know your faith in me is so fucking fragile it would break over _one_ _rumour_."

"Lou—"

"Why?!" Louis shouts. "Why would I do that to you? Why the _fuck_ would I do that to _myself_ , for that matter?!"

Harry blinks. "What?"

"That's right, you idiot. Why the fuck would I do that ridiculous thing you've just described, when it would be so much worse for me if I did?"

Harry scowls. "I don't... fucking hell, Louis, they _know_. They fucking know and now Bradley's on my back and—"

Louis' crack of laughter is biting. "Yeah," he exhales, voice low. "It sucks, doesn't it? Welcome to my world."

"Is that why you did it?" Harry trembles, with rage or fear, or something else. Louis doesn't know what. He doesn't even think the what knows. "Is that why you told them I was there?"

"You fucking dickhead," Louis snarls, blue eyes thundering. "I didn't tell anyone anything."

He's shaking, he can feel it ripping down his spine, like a staticy cloud around him, like he's about to burst into flames. He can almost hear it, the ripple and crack of his disappointment. 

They're both silent but Harry's eyes are loud. He's thinking, hard and quick, and Louis hopes he's starting to realise what a twat he's being.

Meanwhile, Louis can't stop looking at a stray ringlet tangled in Harry's eyelashes. If this was last night, Louis would sweep it away, ever so gently, and kiss the living daylights out of him.

But it's not last night and Harry is so focused that he doesn't even notice that it's there, doesn't realise he's not seeing clearly. "They said you went to the press."

"Who did?"

"Malarkey."

Louis lets out another bark of brittle laughter. He can't not. This is the funniest fucking thing he's heard in days.

He absolutely knew something like this would happen, he just hadn't been prepared for how horrific it would be when the time came. He feels rotten to the core, swallowed whole. 

Everything makes a lot more sense now. The reality of their situation is sharper, clearer. God, if he could just go back, borrow any day of last week. Nothing hurt nearly as much back then.

He inhales deeply. Well, he guesses he may as well go all in. Put his cards on the table, go out with a bang, that sort of thing. So he finds Harry's eyes again to say, "I expect he also had a convincing explanation for why I would do that to someone I'm in love with?"

In the days to come, Louis will be able to pinpoint the exact moment Harry registers the operative word in that sentence. Right now, it's all a blur of adrenalin and the _fucking finally_ of letting himself say it, that it takes a while for Louis' brain to catch up.

When it does, Harry is staring at him, mouth hanging open. "Louis..." 

But Louis is hopped up on fight or flight, and the pleasant hopeful surprise on Harry's face is all too little too late and it scrapes over raw nerves.

Harry steps into Louis' space and looks sheepish when his hand is slapped away.

"Answer the fucking question, Harry!"

"He said…" Harry stalls, swallowing, leaning forward like he's tempted to reach for Louis again. "He said that Bradley had a plan to help you. That after the argument yesterday, they wanted to support you. He said they'd… I don't know… advised you that if you outed me to the media then it would be easier for you to come out. That it was a good strategy. And that, that you agreed to do it. And that I should prepare my own strategy, and that's when I hung up."

Louis grinds his teeth together. "You genuinely thought that I'd do that to you?"

"I didn't want to believe it," Harry whispers in such a way that it sounds like he hates himself a little, "but that's what he said and I don't know… _fuck."_

Louis can relate. He knows better than anyone how conniving, how convincing, Malarkey can be. The beginning was the worst, and even though it feels like an age ago, Louis can remember exactly how it feels to have your brain severed open, rummaged around in, and the weak bits pulled out and shoved in your face.

Louis remembers enough to know that Harry's day must have started with a healthy dose of drip-fed venom. And doubts. Doubts that needled his skin and silenced rational thought.

But a savage corner of Louis' brain reminds him that he managed it for months, _years_ , without ripping someone else's heart to pieces, so why can't Harry? 

"Did he even mention the Guesthouse specifically?"

"Yes," Harry says, then just as quickly pauses. "I mean, I think so."

Louis breathes out, sad to match his smile. "I doubt he knows. He would have been pressing you, hoping that you have something worth hiding. Something to scare you with. For the record, I don't need you to pave the way for me. I'm not in the closet by choice. I'd have come out years ago if I could have."

Harry's whole body seems to break. "I'm sorry, I—"

"So, did Malarkey threaten you yet?" Louis says quickly and mostly just to shut Harry up. "Did he threaten you with the fate of the band? Or has he already moved on to threatening you with all the things he could do to Liam or Zayn or Niall?"

"Louis," Harry gasps, horrified, "stop."

But Louis can't stop. "Or how if you didn't listen, he could break me, or Gemma, or… or your _mum_?" He stops abruptly to drag in a long breath of dead air. It feels like he's reliving every single one of those fights but Harry is reacting to Louis' pain not his own. "Not yet, huh?" Louis concludes blankly. "Well, you've got all that to look forward to then."

Harry looks completely floored and Louis gets the feeling that he's witnessing the last few years of their lives flash in front of Harry's eyes.

"They threatened you like that?" Harry asks, tears a glossy green before they start to fall. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Louis' eyes dip away. "I couldn't. It wouldn't have been fair."

"You should have told me," Harry insists. He sounds passionate, desperate. "We could've… maybe we could have avoided all of this."

Louis sucks in a breath. He doesn't have the heart or the energy to find out exactly what Harry wishes they could have avoided. What he does know is that if he'd just been honest with Harry, he could have spared him the pain and anguish he experienced this morning. He knew Harry's implication at the recording studio yesterday wouldn't have gone over Bradley's head, and yet he still didn't tell Harry about the impending danger. He'd just wanted to buy himself more time. More time before he had to face the pity on Harry's face. 

The pity that's there right now.

"If you'd told me I could have done something to help you," Harry is saying. "I thought we were friends."

"So did I," Louis retorts, the threat of tears scratching at his throat. "Leave me the fuck alone, Harry. You've said and done enough."

Nothing's ever simple, Louis thinks, least of all human emotion. Maybe that's why Harry's face flits from one emotion to another — apologetic, frustrated, disbelieving and furious, then layered together all at once.

"I'm so sorry, I—"

"Don't," Louis rushes out as Harry opens his mouth to speak. "Please just do one thing for me and don't say a word. And if you can't do that, then go."

Harry makes a choked off sound in his throat. Then he snaps his mouth shut and, as though he can't stay without the risk of his words stabbing their way out of him, he nods solemnly and does as Louis asks — he goes.

On the other side of the slammed door, Louis hears Harry remember that he loves him, but to Louis it just sounds like a fist in the wall.

Slumping down to the ground, Louis sits silently against a radiator, waiting for it to warm him up, but it never does. Harry's words wander the room long after he goes, smoking up the windows, hooking their claws into the carpet, refusing to leave.

All the while, Louis counts in obscurities. Three arguments. Five awkward silences. Six hours and two minutes since six days ago, when that night's gift was gold.

That’s when Louis realises that it’s not just Friday, but day seven. It's the last night that the Guesthouse will be open in a long while. 

He doesn't even have to consider it. He'll go tonight even if it ends him, and Harry can go fuck himself if he has a problem with it.

What's most worrying is the niggling thought that Harry, finally realising that being with Louis isn't worth the hassle, won't waste a breath or a single thought on Louis' love life ever again.

~

  
  
“Suck me off,” Louis instructs the man petting a line down his back.

“Jesus, you don't fuck around, do you?” the guy laughs but obediently drops to the floor and waits for Louis to turn. He doesn't seem bothered by Louis' impatience or the blatant frustration on his face, just steadies Louis when the alcohol in his system makes him stumble a little as he spins around.

Giggling breathily, Louis looks down, evaluating the boy on his knees for him. He’s handsome, in a stereotypical archetypal prep-boy kind of a way, he supposes.

Louis also supposes that he probably won't get what he wants if keeps his critical frown and his eyebrow raised expectantly, so he shakes himself off and searches in the recesses of his brain for a more palatable expression.

The guy smiles back, so Louis must have done something right, and takes a hold of his waistband. 

"You good?" the boy asks, which is sweet and all but Louis is too busy trying to keep his grin in place, all the while wondering why he's bothering to use his best smile on someone that isn't Harry.

"I'm good," he nods, and supposes that this is the kind of picture perfect half-truth he'll have to get used to telling.

It’s not that he's hating this. It’s just the thought of someone that's not… well, you know. Same old, same old. Louis figures he’s an open fucking book at this point and it's entirely possible there's more vodka in his bloodstream than blood.

The decision to whip his phone out of his jeans pocket as the denim is worked down his thighs certainly isn’t a sober one, but his ear is full of dial tone before he can reconsider its merits.

“Umm… what are you doing?"

"Nothing," Louis says brightly towards his feet. “Wait right there." 

He ignores the way his stuttering heart betrays him when the line clicks open to the sound of Harry’s voice. 

"Louis?! Thank god, I'm so sorry, I—"

“I’m at the Guesthouse.”

There's a crackling silence, then Harry's voice returns, this time much harder. “Louis, leave.”

“I’m at the Guesthouse, and you, you fucking dickhead, are not.”

“Louis, please," Harry says, voice dangerously low. "Leave. Now.” 

Louis smirks, head buzzing. "Absolutely not," he sing-songs, shucking his jeans off his feet.

Harry makes a frustrated little growling noise that probably wasn't intended to go straight to Louis' dick, but nevermind.

"Louis," Harry starts hesitantly, like he knows he won't like the answer to whatever he's going to ask next. “Who's with you right now?”

Louis grins delightedly, eyes heading to the floor only to find that the boy must have stood up when Louis wasn't paying attention. He's now a few feet away, wearing a face that says he knows he's being ignored.

"Oops," says Louis apologetically, looking up at him from under his eyelashes and biting his bottom lip. “What’s your name?"

“What?” 

“Name,” Louis beckons for it with his hand. "Harry here wants to know."

The guy, easily distracted by the way Louis' hand disappears inside his tightening boxers, swallows hard. “Umm... George.”

“George,” Louis echoes with a wide smile, "Here," he tosses the phone at him. “Say hi to Harry.”

George fumbles it but stops the phone from bouncing to the tile floor, managing to somehow look both excited and terrified. "Yeah, hi," he greets into the phone and immediately winces.

Presumably, Harry is shouting.

Even through the drench of alcohol, the ridiculousness of this situation is not lost on Louis. It just so happens that the situation is a number of other things too, including incredibly fucking hot. What's most ridiculous is that the guy who's supposed to be fucking him right now could be completely removed from this equation and Louis would be perfectly happy about it.

"Yeah, umm… NO! No, of course not…"

Feeling a bit sorry for him, Louis catches George's eyes, puts a finger to his lips, and beckons for the phone back. George surrenders it gladly, returning it to Louis so quickly you’d think it was searing his fingertips off, and Louis flips the call to speaker.

“He’s mine," Harry is growling down the line.

Louis shivers. “Oh, is he?”

“Louis—”

"I don't recall being yours, Harold. Last I knew, we were arguing."

“And if you want, we still can be. But George is going to leave now.”

“Uh, _no_ ," Louis corrects. “George, stay right where you are.”

"George, leave," Harry demands. 

Louis watches as George's eyes widen in fright but track up and down Louis' body like his conscience is being torn in two very different directions.

"Lou, I'm gonna come and get you and then we can talk. I was being a wanker, I know that, but we can sort this out. I never really thought you would do that, I— what's that noise?"

Louis looks over to the square of tile where a removed belt has fallen to the floor with a clank. 

“Is that George?” Harry asks slowly.

“No,” the boy squeaks, probably because he doesn’t want to see what Harry will do to the 'George' he very clearly instructed to leave. He hastily refastens the buttons at his fly and takes a deliberate step back and away from Louis.

“Coward,” Louis whispers at him playfully, then slings the phone, disconnected, onto a cabinet where it displaces an orange dildo and a few condoms, and exhales shakily.

The nervous energy that's been fire-cracking its way around him starts to fizzle out, the adrenalin running short. The tipsy feeling is on it's way out too. It feels like he just giggled out the last of it.

"You staying?"

He honestly doesn't know what he'll do if George says yes.

"I think maybe I should leave," George volunteers carefully after a few moments. He sounds nice and reasonable and Louis feels like such a twat.

"Yeah, I'm really sorry, man. I shouldn't have dragged you into all of that."

"It's okay."

Louis twists his mouth, ashamed. “Do you, er… do you want me to get you off?”

“What? Oh, no! No, no, it’s fine, mate.”

Louis shrugs. "The new guy might be free."

George laughs a little. "Stop stressing about it. You're too drunk anyway. I'll go umm, see if I can find that guy."

Sighing, Louis watches George leave and starts to wonder whether one night stands will ever be enough for him again. They used to be, a night or two at the Guesthouse has always been enough to settle his restless mind. But he knows what he wants his future to look like, and it looks nothing like George, or any of the others that came before.

He knew loving Harry was never going to be easy, but Harry's always been it for him. His end game, his white picket fence. And sometimes it seems as though he might be that for Harry too. 

He just doesn't know whether Harry is prepared to sacrifice everything to get him. 

~

When Louis was young, he thought bad things only happened on bleak rainy days or dark foggy nights. Now when he looks at a spring sun and hears birds sing happily to a clear sky split with sirens, he’s no longer surprised. 

As it happens, rain has been hammering down all afternoon in thick rippling sheets and the clouds look black and apocalyptic. Louis thinks it's pretty appropriate all things considered.

He finds Liam and Zayn, and he's fortunate enough that they don't ask why. He sits at Liam's kitchen table and talks and laughs, while his heart falls apart and neither of them even suspects.

Or so he thought. 

“So," Zayn says like Louis isn't about to like where this is going. "Who do we hate?”

"A man," Louis answers.

Zayn watches him, dark-gold eyes expectant as though he's wondering if Louis is planning on expanding that noun any time soon.

Louis sighs, pushing his beer away as though it has somehow contrived his troubles into existence. "Harry," he answers flatly.

Immediately, Zayn smiles. It's a wide terrifying smile that makes Louis flinch. "We don't hate Harry," he corrects evenly.

"Well _you_ may not," Louis scoffs.

Zayn doesn’t move, eyes stoic and lazy. Eventually, he puts a cigarette in his mouth and squints. 

"Does this have anything to do with what happened this morning?" Liam asks, looking between the two of them. "Or anything that's happened over the last few days, for that matter? Including the scratch in my granite?" He points to the spot on the counter that had suffered the blunt force of Louis' fear and anger. The associated pepper grinder is nowhere to be seen. 

It's scary to think it was only a few days ago that he and Harry had argued in this kitchen. It feels like an age.

"It's possible," Louis admits.

“Talk to him."

“Don't think I asked," Louis snips, mostly because Liam has a point. 

"If I waited for you to ask, we’d all be grey," Liam huffs, sitting down next to Zayn, scraping his chair closer until there's not a slip of air between them. "And to be honest, it's the only advice that works. Talking _always_ works."

The corner of Louis' mouth trips up in a wry smile. "Think that depends on what you're saying to be honest."

"You never listen when I try to help," Liam sulks but he's not so wounded that he can't nuzzle into the back of Zayn's neck. 

They're really cute together, sherbetty sweet with a touch of spice. It makes Louis feel a little hollow, and it's nobody's fault but his own. He knows he could have had all that with Harry if they'd done things right.

“Well, your help hurts Liam," Louis says in the end. "Unless your help comes in the form of tea,” he adds fairly. “Is there any chance your help could be tea?"

Liam raises an eyebrow but walks to the sink. The click of the kettle switch going on settles like a warm blanket on Louis' skin.  
  


Beyond the window, the evening is clearing up, no longer blurred with that drumming curtain of rain. 

As the water rumbles away in the kettle, Liam turns and flicks his attention between Louis and Zayn, looking a bit unsure. "Do you want me to leave you two to talk?"

"No, Li," Louis frowns. "Of course not."

Liam exhales with a genuine, puppy eyed smile.

“Besides," Louis smirks. "The more people in this room, the more people I can blame when shit goes wrong later.”

Liam laughs, curses him colourfully, then waits patiently with Zayn until Louis is ready to speak.

Louis clears his throat and looks at his hands. "I mean, I should probably talk to him," he concedes. "Return his calls. Or one of his texts. But, it’s umm… I don't think he really wants to see me.” 

“Shocking," Liam says, but drops down next to Louis to put an arm round the back of his shoulders.

“Do you think it would be possible for you to not be a knobhead about this please?” Louis begs, shifting nearer Liam's hopefully infectious courage.

"Why would he call and text you if he doesn't want to see you?" 

"Zayn, don't," Louis pleads tieredly. "My head's a mess already." He traces a finger through a little streak of coffee dust on the table by Liam's mug until his nervous energy gets the better of him. "It's not like it's that hard to send a text. If he really wanted to see me, he'd be looking for me, right?"

Zayn and Liam stay quiet.

“Well, I'm sure as fuck not gonna run round London making grabby hands at him,” Louis asserts, although he's tempted to do just that. “I'd rather be alone.”

"If you carry on like this, you're gonna be," Zayn advises him.

He's right, and Louis drops his head into his hands, jumping at the sound of the kettle clicking off. "He thinks I sold a story on him," he mutters into his arms.

"No, he doesn't," Liam says, so sure, and Louis understands because it _is_ out of character for Harry.

But Liam doesn't know everything, and that's why he can casually sip sweet coffee and think everything's fine.

Louis sits up. "Sometimes I Iet strangers fuck me at a sex club."

Liam chokes and sputters coffee back into his mug.

Zayn's eyes go round.

"And sometimes Harry fucks me there too." Louis breathes heavily but won't allow himself the indignity of looking down. "And he thinks I told the press. I guess he's pissed because there's not much you can say to that."

"' _No comment'?"_ Zayn suggests dryly.

Liam snickers.

They've both recovered surprisingly fast, and Louis is left blinking.

Perhaps they haven't heard him correctly.

"Fucking strangers," he reiterates. "And Harry."

Two heads nod patiently.

"In a sex club," Louis says indignantly to no reaction. "With hand cuf—"

"Yeah, alright," Liam snaps quickly.

Louis sighs and slumps down in his seat. "And then, when we were okay and I wasn't being a cock and _he_ wasn't being a cock, like literally as soon as we're okay, this happens."

"Why would he think you'd sell him out?" Liam asks.

"Malarkey told him."

"Malarkey? From management?" Zayn checks. "Which one is he?"

"The big boss," Liam says with a pointed look at his boyfriend.

Zayn frowns. He must be casting his mind back, perhaps remembering the one and only time he’d ever met Grant Malarkey. It was the first time any of them had met him. They'd just stood there while he looked them over like he was trying to calculate how much money they would make him. Or cost him.

Finally, Zayn turns back to Louis, concern etched on his face. "Do you know him well, Lou?" he asks softly.

"Yeah," Louis replies, equally somber. "He err, he doesn't like me acting 'gay', or being gay, or anything gay really."

"By that, do you mean…"

"That he told me everything would come crashing down if anyone found out? Yes. Said that Harry would be the one to suffer? That he’d _make_ him suffer? Yep, that too. And…" He stops, forces himself to breathe through the heartache under his ribs.

"This is a right mess, mate.” 

"Yes, Zayn. That much is very fucking clear." Louis rubs his forehead with his fingertips. "You know what, I really don't want to talk about it. All that matters is that Harry thought I'd do that to him. How could he think that I'd do that to him?"

"He doesn't, Lou," Liam says. "Not really. He cares about you so much. He was probably scared."

They sit quietly for a few seconds before Zayn's phone starts ringing.

"It's Harry," he reports neutrally.

They wait it out, Louis feeling more on edge with each second until the noise stops. He feels compelled to reach over and answer it.

“The best thing in my life and I managed to fuck it up," he sighs when it’s quiet again.

And then Liam's phone starts ringing. None of them bother looking at the caller ID. Keeping still for this one is even harder, and Louis has to sit on his hands to stop them grabbing for the phone.

Almost as soon as the room resettles back into silence, it's cut through again with the shrill whatsapp chime of Liam and Zayn's phones ringing together. They both silence them at once, then Liam fixes Louis with a serious look.

Louis shifts uncomfortably. "I’m not gonna like what you’re going to say next, am I?” 

“Sadly, no,” Liam says cheerfully, continuing regardless. "You really need to talk to him."

"He's right," Zayn confirms.

"Oh for fucks sake! I _know_ he's right, I'm not a fucking idiot. Can't you just let me drink my tea and mope for a bit please?"

Zayn lights another cigarette and rolls his eyes. "Fine."

"Thank you." After a moment, he looks at Liam. "I'll be needing that tea then."

Liam rolls his eyes and affects a put upon sigh, but his smile is reassuring and Louis appreciates it when he gets up to find a nice big mug and throws a teabag in it.

When Louis looks back to the table, Zayn is watching him carefully. “I’m sorry I didn’t realise sooner. About what you’ve been through. I thought you were fine.”

Louis feels his face crumple, tears pricking behind his eyelids. "I was. I was handling it. I'm not thinking straight, I'm just... I'm just so fucking tired, you know.”

“You don’t have to do this alone anymore, you know that right?”

Despite himself, Louis finds himself nodding.

He’d always promised himself that he wouldn’t bleed this on the others, that he wouldn’t make them fight his fight. He would protect them from it, because it was his burden and they didn’t need to carry it for him. But he’d made that decision right at the start, before they’d grown up together and shared an apartment, then a stage, then a life.

He’d kept that promise out of habit. But as Liam checks in on him over his shoulder while carefully measuring milk into his tea, and as he feels Zayn sitting in front of him but always watching his back, and as he thinks of Niall and how he’d guard them all like his life depended on it, Louis realises that it wouldn’t be so bad to rely on family after all.

Then there's Harry. Harry who has always been his most enthusiastic cheerleader and his greatest defender. Harry who, according to the text that's lighting his phone, is looking for him. 

The message is from Niall, telling him that Harry has been calling incessantly and turning up at his doorstep, saying that Louis needs to do something about it because Niall has a hangover and it’s driving him mad. 

It means that Niall’s worried.

Remarkably, Louis no longer is.

He could sit and cry over Liam's table, wondering if there's some particular reason god wants him to die alone, but it's not going to do him any good, and he’s not sure he believes that's still his fate anyway.

"I think,” he hears himself murmur, “I think maybe Harry's in love with me." 

When he looks up to assess the aftermath of that statement, Zayn's face is a picture.

"Well, yeah,” he says, incredulous. “The poor guy’s been trying to tell you that for years."

"Are you sure?"

“No, I'm not sure,” Zayn says, completely deadpan as he rolls his eyes. "It's a ridiculous idea. Forget I said it. It's far too obvious."

"It's not obvious though!" Louis exclaims. "At least, I didn't think so." He stands up, wiping off his palms on his jeans. “He loves me, I know that. Like we all love each other. But then it must be different because he says he wants to be with me. But _in love?_ Has it been obvious and I just didn't see it?"

“Talk. To. Him,” Liam intones.

With that, Louis can think of nothing else to do but nod dutifully and reach for his phone.

~  
  


 _To Harry_ : **I’m at Liam's**  
  


 _From Harry:_ **I'm outside.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeek! Hope you enjoyed it. Let me know <3


	10. Day seven (part 2): Merlot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A word of warning: Baileys and editing don't mix. Sorry for any errors in this chapter!

**Harry**

London has seen its way through three different weather fronts since Harry last saw Louis.

Now the air outside Liam’s apartment is a teeth chattering cold but the night is clear and starry and Harry wouldn’t care if it was pelting hailstones or bouting lightning, he’d still be waiting in it for Louis.

He can’t stop playing back the hours that have led him here. Can't not see Louis' hands shaking and his voice cracking, over and over. It's on a loop like a gif he can't look away from, tense like he gets when his stereo needle slips in a scratched record. A staticy skip and crackle that tells him he’s fucked up.

By the time he'd realised, it had been too late. He'd already fallen for the mind games like a fucking idiot and Louis had been the one to bear the brunt of it.

If they ever have to watch the recording of that rehearsal back, as they sometimes do, Harry knows he'll see Louis' performance and see pain, not the show he thought he was seeing at the time. The heartbreaking truth is that Louis was incredible. His singing voice seems to feed off sad-to-the-bone misery, makes it crack real and raw to quiver the hairs at the back of your neck and then soothe them over like velvet. If it weren't so devastating for everyone involved, there'd be an argument for making Louis miserable before every show they do.

Harry knows he should probably be made to pay a lot longer, but he can't help being relieved that Louis is willing to talk to him.

What he put Louis through this morning was inexcusable, and he knows he needs to respect Louis’ space, his trampled faith, and his understandable anger. So Harry’s prepared, feet planted and hands buried in his pockets, ready to maintain the distance when Louis comes out.

He won’t move and he won’t touch, and it all goes up in smoke when Louis flies out of the door and walks right into his arms.

“Louis,” he chokes, holding him so tight.

Louis’ fingers slip in the raindrops pearled on his jacket, sweep up to tremble against his neck. "Yeah,” he croaks out as though his throat is sore.

Harry can hear the reservation in his voice, and senses that it won’t be long before his hands catch up. Still, it’s hard to let go when Louis stops touching him, steps away and drops his gaze as though he’s only now remembering that while Harry may be the one to make him feel better, he’s also the reason Louis needs to feel better in the first place. It makes Harry feel sick.

Louis shoves his hands in his pockets, hunches in as though he’s protecting himself from the agonising silence. "Where's your car?" he asks the rain on the pavement.

“I’ve drunk too much to drive,” Harry admits. “But we can get a taxi, or, umm, we could walk?” He clears his throat. “It's actually quite a nice evening.” 

Louis doesn't miss a beat. “Lovely evening,” he agrees, voice edged. “An all-round lovely day to shout at people that don’t deserve it.”

Harry shuts his eyes. "I'm so sorry," he whispers. He's earnt all the angry jabs Louis can throw at him, and he’s ready to accept them, but Louis’ tone is actually more sad that it is fierce. It tells Harry that he’s hurt and that Harry is solely to blame, and if it squeezes like a chokehold around Harry's heart then he can’t imagine how Louis must be feeling.

“I don’t know how to tell you how sorry I am,” Harry says, rushing an extra step into his stride to keep step with Louis. “I never really thought you’d do that, but my head was such a mess.”

Louis sighs out a little white cloud of breath into the air, and looks over at him, eyes so very blue in the solid black of night. “I know,” he mutters softly. “I know what it’s like, Harry. But how can we make this work if you don’t trust me?”

“I do trust you, Lou.” He stops his hand just before it reaches the arm of Louis’ jean jacket. “I love you. So much.”

Louis stops, tugs on the edge of Harry’s cuff to stop him too, and turns him straight on so he can look him right in the eyes. 

Harry lets him, lets quick blue eyes flick over his face, assessing. At first Harry thinks he’s looking for lies, but then he realises that he’s seeking clarification.

“I’m in love with you," Harry tells him, knowing this situation is too important to rely on guesswork. "It's not new and it's not a whim. I've been in love with you for the longest time, Louis."

It's everything he wanted to say before he walked away from Louis this morning and his sole focus when Louis called him this evening. Neither worked out. On both occasions he'd had to swallow down the words that threatened to tumble from his mouth. But he's glad it's now.

He watches Louis' held breath release in one long sigh.

“You're drunk," he dismisses quickly, turning and walking again, but Harry knows Louis believes him. There’s a tiny curl at the edge of his lips that seems to bounce light around in the dark, and his shoulders are looser despite the shiver of cold.

"And drunks are renowned for keeping their true feelings to themselves," Harry counters, waiting for Louis' laugh before letting a smile creep into the corners of his mouth.

Louis' laughter seems to surprise him a little. It surprises Harry too, but he’s too occupied swimming in the joy of it. A little hit straight to the bloodstream.

“Nobody likes a smartarse,” Louis advises. "But I'll give you that one. Just don't let it go to your head. Drunk people are only ever accidentally clever."

“Okay,” Harry nods, turning into Louis’ road when Louis forgets to. "What about…?” He trails off, not sure how to ask what he needs to ask. 

He won’t be selfish and ask whether Louis meant what he said this morning about loving him. If nothing else, he’s worried the answers will be _no_ and _no._ But he needs to know how badly he’s screwed this up. 

“Do you feel differently about me after… what happened this morning?”

Louis glances across at him with a raised eyebrow. “If by that you mean, have my feelings towards you evolved from wanting to punch you in the face on Saturday, to wanting to take a stapler to your foreskin today? Then yes.”

“Err—”

"A letter opener to your eyes,” Louis muses. “A hole punch to your vinyls.”

Harry flinches. “Okay, Louis, I get it. Violent stationary. I’m suitably uneasy. I really am in love with you, though.”

Louis grins, a flash of pretty white teeth. “Tell me again later when I’m not freezing my arse off.” He pauses for a second, smile sinking a little. “And then again after we’ve had a chat about Malarkey. Let’s see if you still want to tell me then.” 

“I will,” Harry says. It’s the easiest promise he thinks he's ever made.

"Yeah?" Louis checks quietly, smile reaching his voice. "You sure about that?"

"Yeah, Lou. I'm positive."

And so Harry finds himself walking down the street with a smile he hasn't really earnt, but one he knows he won’t stop working for.

~

**Louis**

Unsurprisingly, they find Louis' flat in the same mess he'd left it.

He feels the embarrassment blushing up on his cheeks, like he's bringing someone back after a first date when he'd thought there was no chance of getting lucky.

Harry, however, is not a first date. And he's been clearing up after Louis for years, so he wordlessly and without judgement makes a small space for himself on the sofa and sits down. He nudges the items to the side so gently it's almost like he doesn't want Louis to notice he's done it, or like he's apologising to the pizza box, pack of crayons, and the assortment of guitar picks and Malteser wrappers for relegating them.

It's all very cute and _Harry_ , but Louis has an urge to order him to his living room floor, to recreate the tableau from a week earlier, when Harry's pressing worry had been finding a PA as nice as him, and Louis' only concern was whether Kit was really history.

Seven days later, Kit is definitely past tense and Harry has recommended a new PA who is both a safe pair of hands and won't shout at Louis when he skateboards into a display of merchandise.

But there are new complications, and Louis feels nostalgic for Harry's adoring eyes looking up at him from the floor, wishes that his hands were once again the pebbles in a waterfall of curls.

He feels so close to having that again. To having that _plus_ all the good things he's collected in the days since. Shades of gold, rose and plum, Harry's lips and teeth and the touch of eyelashes on his hips, hard muscle and soft words, and the sounds they made for each other.

But there is a very big obstacle in the way.

"They will ruin us," Louis sums up bluntly over the top of a whiskey glass. He'd feel a little guilty but if Harry wants in, he needs to know what he's dealing with, so Louis figures he may as well just punch him in the face with it.

A heavy silence settles between them as Louis stands behind the opposite sofa with one hand braced against the top like he might fly apart without the solidity of it.

Harry, on the other hand, doesn't seem fazed by Louis' prophecy, and that isn't particularly helpful when Louis is trying to instill the fear of god into him.

"If they haven't already," he adds for good measure. It's intended as a statement of fact but it comes out like Louis' greatest fear. Which it is.

Barefoot, and feeling ridiculously exposed, Louis wiggles his toes into the carpet.

"We're here, together, despite their best efforts," Harry responds reasonably. "So it can't be ruined. At most, it's just… getting that way."

"Getting that way?" Louis scrunches his nose up. "As in, _ruining_? As in, _in the process of ruination_?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "Don't be so pessimistic. That's not what I meant and you know it." He keeps watching Louis closely, like he's waiting for him to fall apart again. "Nothing's ruined, Louis."

"Malarkey knows exactly how to drive us apart. This morning is nothing to what he could do if he wanted to.”

"What if you're wrong?"

Louis raises an eyebrow.

"I mean, you called it earlier when you said Malarkey didn't know about the club. You said he was counting on me having something to hide. Playing on the fear that he knew something, and you were right." Harry takes a long breath. "What if he can't do anything worse than what he's already done— and I'm not saying what he's done isn't bad enough, but what if it's nothing but… suggestion? He could be just making you think that he could do worse, like he made me think he knew about the club. What if it's an empty threat?"

Louis squeezes his eyes shut, hard. 

_'What if it's an empty threat?'_

_What if, what if?_ Louis' mind is a mess of _what if_ s, but this one… it seems so simple, so obvious that it could almost be plausible. It fits. Sits right with everything Louis has learnt about Malarkey and the way he operates. 

But if Harry's right, what kind of naive idiot does that make Louis? 

Were all of Louis' bitten back insults and abandoned speeches for nothing? Every chink to his armour from the day he was thrown in a box, handed a label and got tasked with defending it. All those times he'd been revved up with a fist for a fight but meekly bit his tongue and bowed down. Was it _all_ for nothing? 

It's a bitter irony that he might have gotten away with one of the many coming out interviews he'd rehearsed over and over in his head but never braved.

Louis can wonder _what if_ for the rest of his life, trying to work out if all the tea and tear stains were actually worth it. But he suddenly realises that he doesn't actually care. Not when it's brought him Harry.

The air around him feels calmer than it did a second ago, his bones a touch lighter. The spark of a smile easier as it twitches at his lips.

“I meant what I said last night," Harry says, dragging Louis from his thoughts. "About wanting you. About wanting to be with you. I know it’s not going to be easy but we can do this. And I love you."

"They won't have it," Louis says automatically, but it comes out like a question.

"They wouldn't have you, but what about you and me, and Liam and Zayn?"

Louis purses his lips. He's not convinced that safety in numbers will be enough, but still...

"That's a lot of gay to contend with," he snorts lightly, eyes lifting to Harry's again.

It startles a laugh out of Harry. "Exactly. And you know Niall would back us all up."

"Not very realistic though, is it?"

"It's the truth," Harry points out. "And so what if it won't be easy? Since when do you like easy anyway?"

Louis swallows a mouthful of whiskey and looks back at his feet.

"We wouldn't all need to come out at once," Harry continues. "The boys would want you to have the chance. Gay or not, the pressure of all five of us would buy us at least that."

Louis looks up at that. "Harry," he says quietly. "If not for you, who the fuck would I wanna come out for?"

Harry's smile is sudden and blinding.

"Whatever you took from that, it wasn't the point I was trying to make."

Harry just carries on smiling that truly devastating smile, and Louis' heart kicks up.

"Whether we come out or not, we can still make us work. Don't say it," he fires off when Louis opens his mouth, "I know what I said last night, when I promised nothing would come between us and then I went and acted like a prick and let something come between us. I know better now. I can see the whole picture and this time when I promise, I know what I'm promising."

"You're forgetting that you don't need to do all this Harry," Louis says incredulously. "I'm already in this but you're not. Not really. So to deal with all the shit that comes with being with me…? I mean, who'd bother?"

Harry stares back at him. "I would. And I want to."

And the thing is, Louis believes him. He breathes deep, swipes a hand over his face and swears because there's still one more thing to tackle. "If all that's true, why won’t you touch me? Is it because of George?”

Harry pauses, surprised. “I was trying to respect you. I betrayed your trust and I wanted everything to be on your terms.”

Louis bites the inside of his cheek. "I _am_ sorry about George."

“Did you…?”

“No!” Louis answers quickly. “Of course not, I— I thought maybe I could, and that I’d feel better. But I didn’t want to in the end. I kind of feel sorry for him."

Harry huffs darkly. "I don't." He seems to gather himself. "Forget about all of that. That shouldn't come between us either."

"Please stop saying 'come between us'," Louis says, hiding a grin and pretending not to notice the appearance of Harry's dirty little dimples.

He's somewhat successful, but Harry’s naughty giggle is harder to ignore, and Louis’ pavlovian response is to beam over at him.

The sight he’s met with is distracting to say the least. In all his anxiety, Louis hadn’t noticed quite how indecent Harry is looking.

Having been caught in the heavenly downpour, Harry’s jeans are molded to him like a second skin, clinging wetly to his thighs and making Louis want to squeeze them, or straddle them — he’s not fussy. For the most part, Harry's hair has dried out but for a few tight curls framing his face. It’s a good look, but he's clearly freezing, his whiskey glass jittery in his hands.

Louis frowns a little. "You're drenched.”

"Yeah, sorry,” Harry winces, looking down to the cushion he’s sat on.

Louis rolls his eyes. "I'm really not worried about the sofa, Haz."

A bright smile breaks out on Harry’s face at the nickname, making Louis wonder if he’s ever known anyone else to be so stupidly gorgeous.

“Follow me,” Louis smiles back with a little shake of his head. “Let’s find you a towel.” 

Harry follows him with soft reassuring footsteps, then hovers around in the bathroom doorway for a few seconds until Louis gets impatient with his manners and gently steers him to the edge of the bath and sits him down. It’s the first time Louis has touched Harry since the night before, which would be long enough even without the added distance and ice of their disagreement, and the contact makes his skin hot.

Louis loves his bathroom. Next to his bedroom, it’s his favourite room in the apartment. When he’d started making money, he’d known two things: that he would own an enormous bed, and that he would own an equally enormous bath tub. The bath isn’t quite queen sized, but it’s big and so is the room that houses it. He’s had a few thoughts about Harry and this bath tub before. All of them are pretty diverting. 

To keep his hands busy with something other than feeling Harry up, Louis flicks on a couple of the dimmer lights and takes a fluffy bath sheet out of the cupboard. He starts the shower, turns the diall and leaves it to heat up.

“Here,” Louis speaks quietly, going to hand the towel over but thinking better of it when he turns to find Harry looking up at him sweetly, the low lights rounding out the edges of his jaw and making him look sixteen again.

Louis squeezes the towel in his hand, stepping slowly closer until he can gently brush a corner of fluffy white down the side of Harry’s face as though he's drying away the glisten of already vanished rain. Harry is still as Louis carefully caresses his right cheek and follows the curve of his ear to rub tenderly at the base of his neck where the hair is still damp.

Under his hand, Louis can feel Harry's shiver.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Harry shakes his head, curls falling against his face. “No,” he says breathlessly, licking already glistening lips. “Please don’t stop.”

Steam billows around the bathroom as Louis’ eyes map the contours of Harry's face, as he drowns in emerald eyes, stripped back and open. The moment feels delicate somehow and the thrill of it thrums under Louis’ skin and makes his hands tremble.

He sucks in a breath and shuffles nearer, placing two fingers under Harry’s chin to lift his face slightly. He's so beautiful it makes Louis’ heart tumble, and he has to touch. The towel is only going to get in his way so he lets it sigh to the floor.

As Louis continues his slow exploration, Harry closes his eyes, letting Louis draw the arc of an eyebrow with his fingertip, soothe over laughter lines with his thumb, brush against his jaw with the backs of his fingers.

Louis' breath comes fast as he traces the line of Harry’s cheekbone, and over the sound of rushing water, he hears Harry hum low and happy.

With goosebumps skipping over his skin, Louis turns his attention to the breathtaking bow of Harry's lips, where a shaky sigh ghosts warm air over his hand. His finger passes over the pillowy flesh, once, twice.

There's an electric charge working its way up Louis' spine and a warmth pooling in his belly as he uses his leg to spread Harry’s knees so he can step between them. Something about the movement makes Harry’s lips part against his fingers in an almost-kiss, and Louis feels like he's moments away from just grabbing his face and kissing the hell out of him, but he's not prepared to give this up just yet.

Louis locks their eyes and lifts a little at the hem of Harry's tshirt. He doesnt have to wait long for Harry to get the hint and soon enough the material is dragged off and onto the floor.

They both seem to be holding their breath as Louis' hands trail their way down Harry’s chest, skimming a shoulder to slide over the rounds of his pecs, tickle across his abs and trip down his happy trail, before they travel back up to rest over butterfly wings. Under his palms, Louis can feel Harry’s heart hammering just as hard as his.

With a whisper of Harry's name, Louis leans into his space, closing the distance and curling over to bump his lips gently against the pale skin of Harry's neck where he offers up open mouthed kisses that turn into nippy bites.

“Aaah, babe,” Harry shudders, his hands snapping up to grip Louis’ hips. “Are you gonna kiss me?”

"Just say the word,” Louis says, teeth catching on Harry’s earlobe.

A soft moan spills from Harry’s mouth and Louis bites his lip when a shot of arousal jolts through him and severs his control. 

“Shit, Haz,” he keens, shoving his hips forward, pressing his cock against Harry’s chest. “Fuck that feels so good.”

Harry laughs, a soft rich sound that shoots down Louis’ spine and tingles in his toes. “How bout you stop humping my tits and let me suck you off?”

Louis whimpers. Actually whimpers. Then he pulls Harry up, tips up on his toes and kisses him soundly on the lips. It's dirty from the start, tongue and teeth and scrabbling hands, and frantic enough that Louis topples off his toes to fall further into Harry's arms. It's not a bad place to be. Every place they touch feels hot, and the hard line of Harry's cock is even hotter. Louis squinches his eyes shut because Harry is so hard for him and it's one of the best feelings in the world.

As Louis licks away at the plush velvet cushion of his lower lip, Harry disappears out of view and ends up on his knees looking up at Louis with huge blown out eyes. Louis is so focused on the tiny twin rings of green that he's taken by surprise when Harry's palm pushes his tshirt up his tummy. He trembles as the cool air hits his skin before it's replaced with a wave of humidity from the piping hot water thundering away behind him.

Louis spares a moment to think about the shower that's been running for no-one but soon stops thinking completely as Harry pulls his dick out of his jeans and curls his fingers around it, catching a pearl of precome on his tongue. God, just watching Harry do it is enough to wreck him.

Louis gulps in air as Harry wraps his hands around his hipbones and his lips around the head of his cock, and slides down. He feels the soft inside of Harry's cheeks and the tight clutch of his throat and his eyes slide out of focus.

Slumping forward, Louis grasps around Harry's shoulders, squeezing like it's the only way to process his pleasure and keep from buckling to the floor.

His stomach flips when he hears Harry's contented hum, feels it right along his cock and lets out a moan of his own when it socks him in the belly.

Harry takes him down again and again, sliding up and back in smooth hungry glides and tight little sucks, and just when Louis is starting to teeter on the edge, Harry drags the silk of his lips over the head and off to swirl his tongue then gently dab at the slit. 

It's all too much and Louis thinks he might pass out, right there with Harry's hair a mess in his hands, raked through with his own fingers, and he bucks forwards to dick along the glistening wet of Harry's tongue with raw need.

Buzzed as he is, he can only just make out Harry's cracked chuckle, the sound creaky and sexy as hell as he leans back and rocks his own hips, desperate jabs into thin air. 

"Haz, fuck please," Louis croaks. "I need it. Let me just— fuck I love you so much."

"Love you too, Lou," Harry murmurs, voice rough. Knowing why his throat sounds so used gets Louis off more than anything.

Probably sensing that Louis is close, Harry quickly pumps him, his other hand grabbing a handful of Louis ass cheek, fingers dipping in the crease to trail over exactly where Louis wants them. When he chances another look down, Harry's cheeks are flushed scarlet and he looks needy as he opens his mouth _right there_ in invitation, and that's what sends him over the edge to stripe Harry's tongue and lips white.

He gasps his release, eyes clenched, breath coming out in silent sobs.

As he comes down, be forces his hands to slowly ease their grip in Harry's hair until he's petting with uncoordinated fingers that shake around the strands as his body rides the aftershocks. 

Sighing happily, he gradually opens his eyes and is met with Harry's grinning face as he fingers Louis' come into his mouth. Louis laughs and it feels like he's unspooling, the tense coil of his body unravelling.

He's not sure he's in any state to make good on the offer, but he still says, "Let me," and drops down to appear in front of Harry, hands reaching for his jeans. He's struggling with the buttons, denim stiff from the rain, when Harry laughs breathily and squirms like he's embarrassed.

"So I might have found that really hot?"

Louis grins, smug and delighted.

"I saw that face," Harry whines.

"Yes, you did. And you came to it."

Harry rolls his eyes but his smile is wide. "I'm glad this is an ego boost _for you_."

"Oh give over," Louis laughs, not even caring that his knees are hurting on the cold tile. "Like I'm going to seriously question your stamina when I had to hear you have sex with people for fucking hours when we lived together."

Harry frowns a little. "That's… they're not important to me. Not like you."

"I know," says Louis, and he means it. 

In wordless agreement, they hold each other's gaze and revel in the pleasant sparks firing through their bodies. Not long after, Louis goes to scratch his stomach and discovers that not only has he painted Harry's face with come, but he's somehow managed to get it all over himself too.

Groaning, he gestures for Harry's shirt. "Take one for the team?"

"Uh, no," Harry snips, flicking his tshirt out of Louis' reach. "You are literally centimetres away from a hot shower, and I have to wear that later."

Louis pouts and tickles the little bumps of flesh at Harry's hips. "The hot water's run out."

"It's literally steaming. We should turn it off if we're not going to use it."

"I don't want to move," he groans, dropping his head to Harry's right pec and nuzzling against it. "Just let it run."

There's a pause when all that can be heard is the thundering of water, then the next words out of Harry’s mouth are, "Think of the polar bears, Lou."

Louis sits back up, chuckling, and tips his head to the clouds of water vapour and the ceiling beyond. It's modern and skimmed flat but he remembers that his mum's house had patterns worked into the plaster. _Artex_ , that was it. Louis used to love finding pictures in it, he'd lose time and anxiety that way. "Do you know how to artex ceilings, Haz?"

"I'm not sure I know how to use a paint roller," Harry confesses. "But I'll learn if you need me to."

Louis smiles. A crinkly eyed smile that Harry can hear in his voice when he says, "Thanks love."

"I'm really sorry, you know," Harry says, thumb and forefinger on his chin to encourage his face back down. "For loads of things."

"List them," Louis instructs.

Louis can hear Harry laughing even though he's trying to hide it. "Tomorrow I will," he promises. "Tomorrow, you're seeing your mum and your family and you'll love that, and then you'll make me pay for a bit and then I'm gonna kiss you again, and then I'll tell you all my sorrys."

  
"Mmm," Louis agrees, travelling over inky shapes and scripts with his fingers. It's how he was touching Harry before, only where it had previously felt like it was leading to something, now this feels like affirmation. "Me too. I have a lot to apologise for too." It's as he stutters over one of the swallows that he pauses. "You sure you really want this?"

"Us?" Harry clarifies. 

When Louis nods he seems to relax, like he's relieved he's not going to have to say goodbye to one of his swallows. Louis snorts.

"Yes, Lou," he says, face and voice steeped with sincerity. "Is there something about the way I've been chasing around after you that makes you think I don't?"

Louis lips part with a click around a little breath. "There's chasing, there's catching and then there's keeping."

"True," Harry acknowledges evenly. "But not here. Not with us. I'm in this… forever. I've wanted to be the person you're in love with since we met."

Louis smiles so wide, eyes closing slowly, happily, eyelashes weighing heavy with the force of it. "And was our first time everything mini Hazza imagined?" he teases, thinking of the gold mask he's hid in his suitcase and will never get rid of.

He expects Harry to laugh and try again to divert him to the shower, but he simply smirks and says, "Not far off to be honest. I mean, I wanted it loads of different ways. All the ways I could think of. And I had a vivid imagination."

Louis blinks once. He should have known.

Some of the seductress in Harry's expression gives way to seriousness as he says, "I've wanted you since the start. So to begin with, I thought that's just what our friendship felt like."

Louis feels so light and warm, anchored by his touch on Harry's chest, hand moving as the muscle bunches when Harry drags a thumb over his cheekbone.

"Was it like that for you too?"

Louis shrugs coyly. "Sounds familiar, yeah." 

Despite how good it feels to be pulled into Harry's aims, Louis fidgets, skin starting to itch under drying come, and he knows that Harry must be even more uncomfortable. It's then he realises that as much as he detests the idea of moving right now, the thought of Harry naked in his shower, water sluicing off his shoulders and trickling down his abs, is incredibly motivating.

He uses Harry to heft himself to his feet and gestures over his shoulder. "Seriously Harry, how long are you going to waste water like this for?"

In response, Louis receives a roll of the eyes and fireman's carry into the shower, but he can't complain.

~

Washed and dried and wrapped in a quilt of Harry, Louis finds his phone lit with more notifications than he has the patience to read.

Zayn has made a group for him, Liam and Niall and they're all checking up on him. Louis smiles, and opens the app straight away.

**Louis:** Love you guys

His phone buzzes instantly.

**Liam:** There you are! Is everything okay?

**Louis:** Yeah it’s good. We're good

He bites his lip thoughtfully then types again.

**Louis:** I don't really know how to thank you lads

_Zayn_ _typing..._

**Zayn:** I like cars

Louis snorts.

**Louis:** I'm not that grateful.

**Zayn:** I’ll try Harry

**Zayn:** Maybe he’s grateful enough.

**Louis:** Don't bother

**Louis:** He's busy

"What's up?" Harry asks sleepily. 

The sound is gravelly and bassy and it rumbles through Harry's chest to Louis' back where they're plastered together.

"Nothing, love."

Louis' phone pings again.

**Niall:** I dunno wha the fucks going on but FUCKING FINALLY. Tell me EVERYTHING!

Harry groans. "Make 'em go away," he says, voice low like a promise.

Louis is doing exactly that even before Harry's hand has fully navigated it's way round his hip and down his inner thigh to toy with the edge of his boxers.

**Louis** : I don't want to hear from any of you for at least three hours

**Louis** : Unless…

**Louis** : Do any of you happen to know how to artex ceilings?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand we have one chapter left. A chapter of fluff and smut and lovely things. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! If you're tempted to let me know what you think, please comment. I live for feedback.


	11. Day eight: True Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So long. This chapter took so long. I hate dialogue. Anyway! Here's the final chapter. Hope you like it :)
> 
> I have tidied up all the other chapters, picking up errors and tightening up sentences. Hopefully, if you're somehow compelled to read again, this will make for an easier and more enjoyable journey.
> 
> Thanks for reading. Please let me know what you think :)

Tonight's gift is blue. A blue ribbon that's almost the exact shade of Louis' eyes and wide enough to cover them.

As a blindfold, it would be soft. But Louis isn't thinking _blindfold_ , he's thinking _rope._ He's thinking about the ribbon looped around his wrists, silky but far from forgiving, which is absolutely fine because Louis wouldn't want it to be.

He experimentally winds the ribbon over the back of his hand, surrendering to an uncontrollable smile as his eyes catch on the little green box it came from. In the place of a pristine white card is a page ripped from a ruled songbook, and on it is a familiar address in Harry’s handwriting, and Louis knows what it means.

There’s a hot fat teardrop of lust dropping low in his belly. 

And all because he knows what it means.

~

When he arrives at Harry's flat, with an overnight bag and a spool of ribbon, the other boys greet him cheerfully, and this isn't what Louis had in mind at all. 

He's spent most of the day racing to and from Doncaster, and he hasn't seen Harry since last night. Not since they parted ways around midnight, with sleepy kisses punctuating a half-hearted argument in which Louis wanted Harry to stay but Harry insisted Louis needed sleep. 

As painful as it is to admit, Harry had been right. Any less sleep and there would have been no hope of Louis making it in time for Daisy's football match. In the grand scheme of arguments, it probably doesn't count as one at all, especially compared to their bust-ups of late, but that's what's so nice about it.

That had been after Louis sent that last WhatsApp message to the boys, and after he'd melted into the rhythm of Harry's hand, surrendering himself to the fuzzy bliss of a good handjob and quickly forgetting about ceilings, textured or otherwise.

They'd been too tired for anything more energetic, but it had been the very best because it was Harry, and Harry-and-Louis without the shadowy question marks. And when Louis had come into Harry's fist, much harder and for longer than he'd have expected for the second time in as many hours, Harry had smiled lazily against Louis' temple and slipped his own hardness between Louis' thighs, using the slick to ease the glide.

Even now, Louis can hear the gasping, shuddering _'I love you'_ that had spilled from Harry's lips when his climax hit. Can still feel the sentiment from when Harry had used the words again a little later, sated and smiling as Louis tried to block his exit from the flat with all his limbs, laughing as he'd pried Louis out of the doorframe and beamed when Louis laughed too.

Those words had sustained Louis from the moment he woke up missing Harry, to the point he'd pulled up alongside Harry's doorstep. It may have been Daisy that sent him packing down the M1 with a rice krispie square and a good intentioned, _'God, you're insufferable without him,'_ but it was those three little words of Harry's that set him back on course like a homing beacon. 

On route, Louis'd burst into his own flat for a quick shower and a change of clothes. He'd very nearly walked right over the gift Harry had left him, but in his haste and tiredness, he'd tripped on the box instead, ending up cross legged on the carpet with his hands spilling over with ribbon. He'd paused all of 30 seconds to grin stupidly before he picked his bags back up, pivoted around and headed straight to Harry's.

True, he's about three hours early, but Louis remembers that not long ago he was naked and pressed against an equally naked Harry and now he's not, and he simply can't wait to feel that again. 

At least, that's what he thought. But as he stands in the doorway, surveying Harry's living room and counting each and every band member in front of whom he does _not_ want to have sex, he realises that he may just have to.

All things considered, he reckons he's doing a pretty good job of hiding his resentment. That is until Zayn approaches him with a knowing smile all over his annoyingly handsome face.

“Are you ignoring me?” he asks like an asshole, slowing to a stop in front of Louis.

Louis sighs deeply. “If it weren't for lack of opportunity, yes.”

Zayn makes an exhausted noise then laughs, a genuine burst of joy that warms Louis' bones to hear. And if that weren't enough to shoo away Louis' disappointment, then Harry's thousand watt smile from across the room certainly is.

One day, someday, Louis might be able to look at Harry without his heart kicking up like an excited puppy. It doesn't seem very likely though. Not unless Harry suddenly wakes up less magnetic, less beautiful. Less himself. Unless Louis wakes up an idiot.

For now, Louis lets his cardio vascular system party it out, and thinks about running right into Harry's lap. He knows what he'll find when if does. He doesn't have to get any closer to know Harry's lips are glistening and bitten red, doesn't need to be looking right at him to know his jumper is that certain shade of lavender that makes his eyes pop, or that Harry will hold him with everything he's got the very second he has the chance.

"He's been missing you," Zayn confides very softly.

Louis exhales with a sudden force of feeling, letting a smile light his face as Zayn drags him further into the room.

"I think this belongs to you," Zayn comments dryly as he herds Louis towards Harry.

There's no hint of protest on Harry's lips. He just smiles harder, and Louis can't help feeling smug. 

He watches Harry put his notebook down, hooking his pen into the little ringlets above his ear as though he's going to get up and greet Louis. Possibly with a hug. Or maybe even a kiss. They can probably do that now, Louis thinks giddily. But they can also do all of that without Harry having to move, so Louis quickly crosses the distance between them and flops down, slipping between Harry and the arm of the sofa where there really isn’t the space, and looking up into Harry's eyes.

“When will they leave?”

“Louis,” Harry chides with a twitch of a smile and a low tone that does very little to convince Louis that it's worth stopping.

Louis turns to the others. “When will you leave?”

"He's kidding," Harry says automatically.

"I'm really not," corrects Louis. 

The boys throw a few lazy insults and Harry giggles, and the combination makes Louis grin into the kiss Harry plants on his lips. It feels so good to be with him again, to sink into the silky brush of lips, and feel warm again. 

Harry's made a fire, because that’s just the kind of thing Harry does when he’s at a loose end, and yet his body is still warmer than the flames heating Louis' back. 

He always has run hotter than Louis' first best electric blanket — a fact that has always served as the perfect alibi to get close to him in the past. But it's not just the chill in Louis' bones that has him curling further into Harry's heat. It never has been. 

And the best part is, Louis doesn't need to latch on to excuses anymore. They're together, making it work, and the others know it too, and that feels pretty fucking special. The hows and the whens and the Malarkeys can wait.

Louis wriggles the remote control out from under his bum, and in the tiny space they both occupy, he ends up jabbing it into Harry's side. “Sorry,” he murmurs, nuzzling the hair behind Harry’s ear.

“Not sorry enough to move," Harry replies with a smile that Louis can feel in the hum that travels in his kiss. The buzz of it cascades down Louis' spine and settles low in his belly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Louis sees Niall smirking at them, but Harry's voice draws him back without even trying.

"Did you have fun with the girls?"

"Yeah," Louis grins. "They're the best."

Zayn, who is now on the sofa, where he'd be half-squashing Liam if it weren't for the fact that Liam's all built now and incapable of being squashed, asks, "Did Dais win?"

"Yeah," Louis beams over at him. "She scored the winning goal. Last minute too." 

It was a successful distraction for the time it lasted, but Louis mustn't forget that he has a goal of his own.

Harry. 

Harry naked.

"So... how many melodies have we written? How many verses? Looks like you've been productive." It's a charitable statement given Liam's blank tablet, but, "I reckon you guys should call it a day," he declares, clapping his hands together. 

Nobody moves. Only Niall puts his grin aside long enough to look indignant. "We're not leaving until we've eaten the food Harry promised us."

"Urgh, I hate you lot," Louis says and makes a mental note to cut them all out of his life.

"You win some, you lose some," Zayn supposes with a sassy little shrug he learnt from Louis.

Harry snorts lightly, breath warm against Louis' ear. "They need food," he excuses, his smile like sweet bait.

Louis throws him a look. “You're enjoying this aren't you?”

"Noooo."

"Louis, it's four in the afternoon," Liam comments as though this is going somewhere. When Louis does nothing other than wait for more, Liam looks exasperated and adds, "Surely you can wait a few more hours to get off."

Louis smirks. "I'm so sorry, Liam. I forgot that sexual intercourse is forbidden between the hours of 9am and 7pm."

Niall cackles and Louis can feel Harry's concealed chuckle in the way he squeezes him closer.

"That's not what I meant," Liam defends, seemingly torn between laughter and irritation. "To be honest, the idea of you two having sex at any time of day is just…" He pulls a face.

Louis sniggers. "Probably best you don't think about it then. Especially as it would only mess with your head to know that we do it in places _other than the bedroom._ "

Everyone laughs, including Liam, whose cheeks flame red until Zayn leans in to whisper something in his ear, then the embarrassed blush morphs into a different heat entirely.

"Eww." Louis hides his face in Harry's chest.

"You shouldn't say stuff like that to him," Harry says in a low voice.

"He can handle it," Louis reasons, because they both know Liam loves being ribbed really.

"I meant," Harry says, sounding husky and content like a cat’s purr, "you shouldn't say stuff like that because it riles me up."

Louis bites his lip and feels hot all over. "Says the man who seduces with ribbons and then cock blocks us both."

Harry shrugs cheerfully, scribbling something in his journal with one hand and reaching around Louis with the other, fingers catching on Louis' football shorts and playing with the hem by his thigh. "They invited themselves. They'll leave eventually." He runs the tip of his nose along the curve of Louis' jaw, shivering at the sharpness of stubble against skin. "I'm enjoying a nice cuddle anyway. Seems ages since we properly cuddled."

_Ages_ is right. Louis won't give that up again.

Zayn looks between them. "So are you two…?"

"Friends again?" Liam completes.

"Properly shagging?" Niall suggests as an alternative.

For a brief second, Louis' habit of protecting secrets threatens to take over, to force him to offer up a dismissive shrug instead of the giddy smile his heart wants to go with. His impulse to protect, to keep everything he says and does deniable, defensible, makes him want to shut this down. Instead, it feels right to square his shoulders and say, "Yes, to both."

Against Louis' back, Harry's heart sparks up a bright rhythm. "Permanently," he adds.

Louis draws back just enough to catch Harry's eyes. "Yeah?" he checks, as casually as he can when inside he's screaming like the triumphant cry of a tea kettle. "Doesn't get much more permanent than permanent."

"No it doesn't," Harry agrees. Then he smiles like this is it, like it doesn't get better than this, and Louis would be hard pressed to disagree. 

Somewhere very far away, Louis hears Zayn tut under his breath. "God, they're gross."

"Right?!" Liam exclaims.

"Disgustin'," Niall confirms with a snicker.

Louis looks around eagerly. "Revolting isn't he?" he contributes, head tipping towards Harry and making a disgusted face.

The joke's lost on Harry, whose brow is furrowing a little with whatever serious thought is going through his head. It's with a sense of relief, of clipped tethers, that Louis realises his instinct isn't to stress about it.

"We won't let it, you know… cause problems for the band," Harry assures the rest of the room, "or change how we are as, like, the five of us. You know that, right?"

"Course it won't change anything," Niall scoffs as though this is the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard. "It'll be exactly the same as always, except without the sexual tension."

Liam nods thoughtfully. "And hopefully less jealousy."

"I can _not_ promise that," says Harry.

Louis bites his lip on a smile. "But we can promise no more Kit, right Harry?" Louis digs a playful elbow in Harry's side.

"The guy who was _'impressed',"_ Zayn notes factually.

Louis grins over at him smugly. "You would be too."

Liam throws him a sharp look at the same time Harry pinches his thigh. Louis imagines that if he turned to look now, Harry's face would be very red. 

The boy pushes his curls out of his eyes and clears his throat. "And we can promise no more random sex club hook ups, right Louis?"

"Unless it's you," Louis retorts in a sweet voice.

It's only a second later, when Harry's eyes dilate, that Louis realises what a fucking amazing idea that is. To go back to the Guesthouse with Harry. Actually _with_ Harry.

And with that, Louis decides to ride off the back of the good in order to tackle the bad. Because it was never just about sex. "We can promise no more Laura," he ventures, swallowing hard as he looks right at Harry with apprehensive eyes that are full of questions. 

Because ' _Laura'_ means more than just Laura, doesn't it? Because the name covers all of the others too, the ones that came before and the ones that will be forced upon them in the future.

"We'll find a way around the Lauras," Harry promises, and Louis has no reason to doubt him. 

Beaming helplessly, Louis pulls Harry closer. It's almost a physical impossibility, but he manages it.

The moment is fuzzy. So warm and downy, like the two of them are wrapped in blankets and suspended in time. 

"So, no more Lauras," Liam echoes after a while. It's almost as though he's determined to keep them on track, like their words are the sand and the cement and that this conversation will mix them into the strong concrete needed to reinforce their foundations. 

Louis feels his eyes sting a little. He's a good lad, is Liam.

"Anything else?" Liam prompts.

"No more cock cages," Harry says darkly.

“Good god,” Liam mutters, sitting back in his chair.

"You barely even got near one," Louis bursts out laughing. He'd ended up hearing the story despite his protests and it was an absolute gem. One he'll enjoy teasing Harry about for many years to come. "And you had your trousers on!"

"I got close enough, thank you very much," Harry clips.

When he's finished cackling, Niall looks thoughtful for a second. "What are you going to do about that Grant Malarkey fella?"

Louis and Harry settle together into a sort of thoughtful quiet. They hadn't quite got to talking through that part yet, but Louis isn't as anxious about it as he thought he might be, and by the relaxed hold around his waist, he senses that Harry's quite calm about it too.

"Well," Zayn says as he flicks around on his phone, "it looks as though he really was bluffing. Unless he wasn't and the world's media still unanimously agreed that this Emmerdale actor's affair is the bigger story." He looks up, bored. "Believe me, this shit has nothing on sex clubs and gay boybanders."

Liam hooks his chin on Zayn's shoulder to read the headlines. "That's good." He flicks his eyes up to Harry and Louis. "To spare you being forced into something, I mean."

"Something else," Niall amends with an angry frown. He looks like he might just stalk over to the management office right now and dish out some pay back. It's so unlike him that Louis' busy brain stutters to a halt.

And then Zayn is nodding, jaw set and eyes fiery, and Liam is saying, "We would have gotten through it together if you'd both wanted to come out."

The smile Louis feels fills his heart but he doesn't quite know how to voice it, so he just says, "Aah Liam, I take it _all_ back… I know you have wicked dirty sex really."

"Loooouiiiis," Liam whines.

Louis laughs quietly but feels his smile gradually morph into something more serious. He's already accepted that he's grown bad with emotions, worse with the truth, but maybe he can get better. Maybe now that he has less secrets to keep and doesn't feel like he's fighting for his life, for all of their lives, he can be affectionate and genuine again. Be himself again. 

And he owes it to everyone else to try, because in this hypothetical alternate reality they're imagining, Liam's not talking about relying on their media relations team to fix it — not that the harmless sounding designation would reassure anyone. Instead, he's talking about the five of them and how they'd weather it, stick together and see through it, not try to erase it for a calmer life and an easier road to more success. Even if the scandal of it was the only thing the world read about for weeks. Even if it haunted them all for the rest of their careers.

Liam deserves Louis' appreciation and Louis desperately wants to give it, however hard it may be. 

He takes a shallow breath. Any deeper and he'll bottle it. "You do know I'm kidding, right Li? Like… I'm just being an ass because I don't know how to say thank you like a normal person." He pauses, teeth clattering around the words. He sighs and takes strength from the beginnings of a very soft, very real smile on Liam's lips. "I really am grateful, Liam. To all of you."

It's not much, he guesses, but it's something, and there's a long moment when they all seem to absorb the words and wordlessly reflect them back. 

A moment in which Harry wraps a hand around Louis' wrist reassuringly and says, "We both are." 

And then when it all starts to get a bit too quiet for Niall's liking, Zayn tips his head in exaggerated thought. "Still," he laments dryly, "let's feel for the reporters at The Sun. They would've been really fucking excited about that story.”

Liam huffs coldly. “What _don't_ they get excited about?"

"Facts," Harry supplies in that perfectly deadpan voice he does sometimes.

Louis sniggers, lifting his face from where he’s been rubbing his cheek into lilac fluff, and pivots around until he’s straddling Harry's lap.

Compelled like Louis' arousal is catching, Harry hurriedly shoves his pen between his teeth, freeing up his hands to cradle Louis' face. He comes a bit unstuck when he surges up to kiss Louis' lips around a mouthful of plastic and green ink.

Louis laughs, picks the pen out from between Harry's lips and chucks it over his shoulder. The next second, he hears Zayn grumble at the impact. It's a second he enjoys greatly.

“I’ll ride you if you help me get rid of them,” he tells Harry.

Harry dimples obscenely. “Firstly, that’s happening anyway. And secondly, you're supposed to offer something you don’t want to give.” 

"Er, excuse me, Harold," Louis squints, then appreciating that he doesn't have a leg to stand on, threatens, "Carry on like this and I'll leave you to play with yourself." 

"Then who would tie you up with ribbon?" Harry asks innocently. 

"I knew it wasn't a blindfold!" Louis congratulates himself loudly. 

The boys are having their own discussion and their chat carries on regardless, laughter lilting in a familiar rhythm as Harry puts his hands on Louis' hips and eases him down in a slow tight grind that makes stars collide and Louis' breath come quick.

"Don't need it to be a blindfold." Harry looks up at Louis, eyes glinting. "I still have the one from Tuesday."

"Monday," Louis corrects absently, battling down the gold butterflies in his chest as he remembers the way Harry's fingers had wrapped around the sin black blindfold. "It was Monday. I remember it very clearly."

Harry's eyes soften. "I'll make it up to you."

That's not what Louis meant, but the promise makes his stomach swoop. 

"You don't have to make anything up to me," he responds firmly. "But…" He looks over his shoulder then back at Harry with dark eyes. "I think it's time to dismiss the class, don't you?"

~

“I thought they’d never leave,” Louis says from where he’s knelt on Harry's bed, knees spread wide and hand around his flushed dick. "How did they not get the hint?"

"The ' _hint'_?" Harry repeats with a breathy laugh. 

The rest of his point is put on hold when he can't seem to resist tracking his wide eyes up and down Louis' body, stalling on the blue ribbon looped around his left thigh like a garter. It seems to cost him a lot of effort, but he blinks hard and meets Louis' eyes again. "You told me to fetch their coats and then started turning the lights off. That's a bit more than a hint."

"Well it worked," Louis retorts, completely unashamed. "Eventually," he grumbles a beat later when he's reminded that the boys didn't exactly make it easy.

At least he'd predicted that they'd all take their sweet time to say goodbye, and he'd had the foresight to dart off his own brisk, _'See ya later, fuckers,'_ before using the wasted minutes wisely by showering then arranging himself on Harry's bed in time to hear the front door click closed and Harry's voice carry through the flat. 

"Loui—" Harry had stepped into the room, taken one look at Louis, a long sweep of the eyes, and cut himself off abruptly with a little gasp. "Louis, you're…"

"Good to go, yeah," Louis had smirked.

But a couple of minutes later, Harry is still looking, still on the opposite side of the room, and Louis squirms under the attention. 

"Just me and you now," Louis reminds him, biting the side of his lip. "Come on… show me your dick."

"You're in my bed," is all Harry says, sounding awed and like he hasn't heard a single thing Louis has been saying. "Actually in my bed. _My_ bed."

"I am," Louis agrees patiently. "And you're all the way over there."

Harry nods, looking completely spaced out, like he's travelled back in time, woken up sixteen again and doesn't understand how Louis is kneeling on his very expensive very grown up bedsheets completely naked. Like it's unfathomable that Louis would be working his cock while holding Harry's eyes, a grin on his kiss bitten lips and the shiny head of his hard dick disappearing then reappearing over the top of his fist.

When it clicks that maybe Harry actually feels that awed, that overwhelmed, Louis groans, biting down on his lip and spreading his legs wider. " _Please_. I really wanna see your dick, Hazza."

Louis expects the quick fire blush on Harry's cheeks but not the sudden frenzied movement Harry makes towards him. It's quicker than Louis can ever remember seeing him move.

His t shirt gets lost in transit, and as Louis' eyes eagerly map his body, there's no possible way Louis could mistake this for 2010. There's no confusing this man for the boy he once was, not with his leaner frame, harder muscles and the ink on his skin. But his eyes are still the same sixteen-year-old sparks of hope and life that Louis remembers, his fiery diamond soul and kind golden heart are fiercer and warmer, if that's even possible, and Louis loves this man as much as the boy, as much as he's loved every incarnation of Harry in between.

When Harry stills in front of Louis, standing by the bed with eyes that are inky dark and cheeks that are flushed like a stormy wind has been chapping at them, Louis can't resist leaning in to lick a broad line across his abdomen, tracing the butterfly then nipping at a laurel leaf.

Harry tips his head back and drags in a breath, and Louis looks up the line of his happy trail, up the centre of his chest and the miles of creamy skin, up and up until he can see Harry's adam's apple bobbing. There’s so much skin on show that Louis doesn’t know what to do with it. Until Harry's chin drops back down and his doe eyes meet Louis' halfway, and then Louis knows exactly what he's going to do with it. He's going to touch every square inch of it.

He starts by sitting back on his heels, reaching up to flatten his hands against Harry's chest then slowly smooths down his belly to his waistband.

“You look really serious," Harry says, finger finding Louis' face. "Is something wrong?"

"As if," Louis scoffs. "This is my face when I'm trying not to nut from just looking at you."

The room brightens with Harry's startled laughter. 

"How could something be wrong in the face of this," Louis adds, indicating Harry's general existence before he lets his hands and eyes settle on the hard line in Harry's jeans just centimetres away from his lips. "I mean, the _literal_ face of this.”

"You're so fucking hot," Harry sighs.

"No, Harry," Louis tuts, squeezing Harry's dick over the denim. "I'm saying that _you're_ hot."

"Well… then you thinking that I'm hot makes you look hot. Hotter," Harry smirks, "the hottest."

"Shut up," Louis mutters around a grin, eyes still fixed on Harry's dick, fingers massaging over the length of it. It throbs in his hand and Louis has to bite down hard on his tongue to distract him from coming on the spot. "For god's sake turn around before this is all over."

Harry snorts but turns.

Then Harry's cute little bum is in Louis' face instead and the broad expanse of his back rests under Louis' fingertips. "This isn't any easier," Louis whines, but he's buzzing with the thrill of it.

He bumps his nose into the dip of Harry's lower back, smelling coconut on his skin, rising up on his knees to softly nudge his way up Harry's spine until he reaches the groove between his shoulder blades.

He presses a wet kiss to the nape of Harry's neck and rocks his hips up, rubs his achingly hard cock against the small of Harry's back. "You still want me to ride you?" he whispers in Harry's ear.

"Fuck, Lou. Yeah, please."

Louis bites into his shoulder. "What if I wanted to ride your tongue?"

Harry inhales quickly. "I reckon I'd let you," he chokes out, trying to maintain composure. 

Not a second later, he turns, rushing their lips together, opening up straight away for a filthy kiss. Louis smiles into it, runs his tongue along the pillow of Harry's lower lip before licking into his mouth. 

He feels the air shift as Harry moves onto the bed and pulls him down without breaking the kiss, hands sloping off his shoulders and travelling down his arms to grope his ass. 

Louis shivers in anticipation and he suddenly can't wait a single second longer to have Harry's tongue inside him. With a little moan, he pries his lips away so he can scramble up Harry's body. 

"God, you really need it, don't you?" Harry mutters when Louis settles his knees either side of his head.

"Really need _you_ ," Louis corrects, hands braced against the wall, whining in expectation. "I can't stop thinking about the first time you did it. Your mouth on me. I can't …" he breaks off, running out of coherent thought, then gives up entirely when he decides that he's not got much more to add anyway. ' _I can't'_ pretty much sums it up.

He feels sweet warm puffs of breath against the curve of his ass, and doesn’t have to look down to know that Harry is gazing up at him, eyes dazed with want, but he looks anyway and Harry's pupils are blown so wide that the sight makes Louis' dick twitch. "Yours whenever you want. I'd rim you anytime, anywhere you want. I've been thinking about doing it to you since I found out it was a thing."

Louis laughs a little hysterically. He's just so desperate and Harry's words, his _voice,_ are only turning him on more.

Fortunately for both of them, Harry doesn't wait any longer. He simultaneously lifts his face up and drags Louis' bum down till his pretty pink lips part to press against the meat of Louis' left cheek. His mouth isn't exactly where Louis wanted it but when he sucks gently, Louis arches hard, amazed at the cry that falls from his own lips. Harry alternately laps and sucks the flesh, sensitising it to the point of pain, but when he goes to move away, Louis pushes his hips down for more.

Eventually the sweet torture of anticipation has him clawing the wall. "Harry, eat me out, _please._ "

Harry makes a little noise that could be laughter and then his tongue is lapping at Louis' hole. The sensation fires his nerve endings until he’s spreading his fingers against the wall for leverage and writhing in Harry's face.

Harry has his hips in a firm grip now but he's letting Louis rock forward and back on his tongue, and Louis should probably ease off a bit but Harry's making these positive little noises like he's loving it as much as Louis. Which is… impossible, but he's definitely into it.

Harry points his tongue and presses it through the ring of muscle, making Louis gasp and jackknife at the waist. "Haz, fucking hell, Harry, _yes_ " 

Harry fucks his tongue in and out a few times, working little _uh uh uhs_ from Louis' lips. "My god, your mouth is wasted on singing," he mutters, grinding his forehead into the brick. 

"Heeey," Harry pulls away just enough to say, and then his tongue is back and Louis' choked off cry is met with another huff of laughter that sends sparks over sensitive skin.

"Okay, okay," Louis rushes to say, feeling the pleasure building, fierce and too quick because he can't come like this, not without Harry inside him, not tonight.

He lifts his hips and shuffles back down Harry's torso, letting his weight drop on Harry's hard tummy to pin him down with naked skin and strength that Harry could easily overpower if he wanted to. He doesn’t. 

"I need you in me _now_ ," Louis pleads, bum wiggling on Harry's lap. 

Harry pants through swollen spit-slick lips as he hitches his hips, almost unbalancing Louis in the process, and shoves his jeans and boxers down and out of the way until Louis can feel the hot satin of his cock in the groove of his ass, then he throws his arm out across the bed to pull open the top drawer of his bedside cabinet with a crash.

"Hope you didn't have anything breakable in there."

"To be honest," Harry says, deep and sexy, "I only care about this." He draws his hand back to show a bottle of lube.

Louis laughs roughly, inexplicably turned on by Harry's desperation. He won't be too hard on himself for feeling that way. It's not arrogance when he's spent so long thinking Harry wanted every single other person on the planet but him. The joy he feels now in the spotlight of Harry's desire is exactly what he needs to burn away the memory of all the times he thought Harry was out of his league, that he was too loud and too brash to ever have a chance. Close like a brother, loved like a friend. Never wanted like the others were. But the truth had been there all along, if only he'd been in the headspace to see it.

Pulling himself back to the present, his eyes catch on something in the cabinet, in what was probably a very neat drawer beforehand. Sitting on top of the debris, is a picture. A picture of the two of them. It's framed like it once had a place in Harry's hallway but got moved here and never returned. 

Louis' breath catches. In the picture, younger Louis is looking at his Harry like he'll never want for anything else. Which is exactly how he remembers feeling, how he feels right now, and how he imagines he'll never cease to feel.

How on earth Harry could have thought Louis was ever unaffected by him when he has this photo as evidence to the contrary, is anyone's guess. 

"Did you, umm…" Harry starts. Louis looks back at him quickly, hearing the uncertainty in his voice. "Do you want me to use one? I don't mind."

"Huh?" Louis frowns, following Harry's eyes back to the drawer and laughing fondly when he realises that Harry thinks he's been spending all this time contemplating a box of condoms. "I was actually looking at the picture."

"Oh, I umm… yeah, I like having it there." Harry blushes, reaching to take the photo. It's worn round the edges and as Harry thumbs over little-Louis' hair, Louis can see why. "It's not weird."

"I think it might be a little bit weird," Louis teases warmly, remembering a similar exchange a few days ago when it had all kicked off over a gilt mask and a fantasy realised. The fantasy hadn't prepared them for the fallout. Back then, Louis hadn't known his worth and Harry hadn't realised that Louis' hands were tied by more than just wrist straps and a gold bar. It feels different now.

Gently, Louis kisses Harry's lips. Right over the place where they're ticking up at the side as Harry starts to place the familiarity of Louis' retort.

He takes the photo from Harry's hand and props it up against the lamp. "But I like weird, and I love you. And I think it's a bit too late to be having the condom conversation, don't you?"

Harry's been grinning like the devil since the L word and Louis has to click his fingers in his face to bring him back. "Oh Harold," he sing-songs, sliding his bum forward along Harry's dick.

"Yeah, sorry… no to the condoms, then. I was tested before I was allowed into the Guesthouse anyway, and I guess you were too."

"And it's just us now, so…"

Harry must have a real hard-on for commitment because he makes a sudden growly noise and tips Louis over and onto his back, covering him like a heated sheet and kissing him deeply as though he'll lose himself without it. And Louis kisses back because he damn well _knows_ he will.

They kiss long and hard and Louis' lips feel beautifully bruised by the time Harry's hand slides down the side of his body to tease at the ribbon on his thigh. 

He'd almost forgotten it was there but the tickle of Harry's finger slipping under the band to caress the silk under his thumb has him shuddering with the promise of it. Louis rips his lips from Harry's kiss to gasp against his cheek, breath hot and humid in the barely there space between them.

"Where do you want it?"

"My wrists," Louis breathes out. He rolls his head back to look at the headboard. "Your bed's solid right?"

Harry's sharp inhale of breath makes Louis snap his head back down to take in Harry's face with a grin.

"I haven't tested it," Harry replies. There's something about the way he says it, like there's a heap of subtext to work through.

Louis doesn't need long. "Have you really never had any kind of sex in this bed?"

Harry pauses then shakes his head. He looks like he has very mixed feelings about it. Like he's trying to read Louis' reaction to know whether he should come down on the side of proud or embarrassed.

He doesn't have to worry because Louis won't harm him like that, not with cheap jokes that he knows will hit like barbs, not when it means so much. And anyway, Louis doesn't need to lie. "Please tell me the reason for that isn't because you were fretting about staining the sheets," he says very quietly. "Please tell me you bought this bed knowing that you'd only ever share it with me."

"Just you," Harry breathes out.

"You've had this bed for ages."

Harry nods.

Louis laughs so brightly, smiling so happily that his eyes close momentarily. When they open again, Harry is smiling down at him, sweet but hungry. His eyes are fuzzy, soaking Louis up, fingers digging in where they hold him, hard cock thrusting into the crease of his hip.

"Ready to go, huh?" Louis peers up at Harry through his eyelashes, taking a palmful of his big cock in hand, jerking it once, twice and loving the way Harry's eyes roll back.

He could do this forever, revel in the satiny feel of hot skin over rigid muscle, loving the smooth roll of foreskin over the tip and watching Harry forget himself, but Louis' mind is hooked on that ribbon. So he regretfully drags his hand away, dropping it down on the pillow by his head, and looks up at Harry purposely until he gets it.

He doesn't have to wait long. Harry's fingers grip tight around the ribbon, knuckles brushing the inside of Louis' thigh and making it quiver, before he quickly tugs the bow undone and drags it up between them with an expression of unchecked lust. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, Haz. Come on." Louis flexes and releases his fingers around the wooden bars of the headboard, shivering as Harry winds the ribbon until Louis' wrists are bound to the bed.

Turning his head to the side, Louis pulls experimentally and watches the material dig into his skin. He sighs happily, tipping his head straight again to watch Harry smile widely at the sound while he squeezes lube into his hand and reaches down.

Louis whines when Harry circles his hole, spreading the slick and, if his dizzy expression is anything to go by, thoroughly enjoying himself while he's at it. The tip of Harry's finger breaches him and starts a slow pump that makes Louis feel so full he doesn't know how he'll take Harry's cock. 

He will. Of course he will. He's taken it before and it's bliss. It's been a few days, but he hasn't forgotten how it feels to have Harry inside him. To feel the size of him rubbing in all the right places, to feel full like he'll never be empty again.

By the time Harry is two fingers in, tapping a quick rhythm against Louis' prostate, Louis is leaking steadily against his stomach and there's very nearly a hallelujah on his tongue. 

On a particularly accurate slide, Louis cries out. "Fuck, you're gonna make me come.”

“No, I'm not," Harry disagrees.

Louis whimpers, head thrown back. "I think… _fuck,_ I think you're selling yourself a little short.”

Harry laughs, low and delighted. "Hold it," he instructs.

"Fuck, okay. Yeah course but Haz _please._ " He draws both his knees up, feet planted on the mattress and bucks up, trying to find Harry's body above him, hissing at the delicious friction when he finds it.

Harry grins, a flash of white teeth and dimples, and pulls back to kick his jeans the rest of the way off before rolling back on top of Louis with something black in his hand. "Want it?"

Louis blinks, way too close to the edge for riddles. Then the black comes into focus, sharpening around the edges of a velvet blindfold.

"Do you really have to ask?" he breathes, and in case Harry isn't convinced, he squeezes his eyes shut, tips his chin to signal Harry to _hurry up and give it to me,_ and waits. 

The fabric is a whisper against his skin when Harry lays it over his eyes and ties it behind his head, soft and sweet and Louis doesn't care anymore that he was originally meant to wear it days earlier. They weren't ready for it then. They're ready now.

Completely blind, the moment Harry enters him is a blazing rush of feeling. Everything is so much more intense without his eyes. The thickness of Harry's dick, the stretch, the glide. His skin is buzzing everywhere Harry touches and it tickles with the breath that washes over him when Harry bottoms out with a moan.

It feels like hundreds of nerves are being caressed all at once, sending electric currents sparking down his spine to curl his toes. 

It's a lot, and Harry seems to sense it too. "So good, Lou," he says, voice a bassy soothing balm on Louis' skin. "You feel so good. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, babe," Louis gasps as another thrust sends a shudder through him. "I'm good."

"You are," Harry pants, "you are."

He hears the words, _feels_ them, just as tangible as the strong snap of Harry's hips and the smack when they hit his ass. Tangible like the chain bumping against his chin, metallic on his lips as he tongues the gold into his mouth and bites down on the cross.

"You're amazing, Lou. Feel so perfect. Is it good? Good like you?"

"Really good," Louis grins dizzily. "You fuck so good."

Harry answers with another fierce drive in, gripping around Louis' thigh to hitch his leg up and around him. "Only you."

Louis spaces out quickly after that, lost in a hazy bubble where his thoughts are chased away by sensation, and he lets it happen, doesn’t try to move forward or back, doesn’t try to push the pace past what Harry is prepared to give him. It just feels so good, winding up up up, Harry working in in _in,_ unforgiving as he finds a quicker pace.

He's got no chance when he feels Harry's large hand around his cock, a firm grip and a fast rhythm, a little pause at the top to palm over the head, and Louis' whole body is drawing in, bowing taught as the pleasure winds tighter and tighter.

Then Harry whispers, "Come for me, Lou."

And that's all it takes. Louis cries out, heels digging into the small of Harry's back, gold bending under his teeth as he flicks his hips into the tight channel of Harry's hand and shoots up his chest.

He comes so hard and for so long that he's still floating on the kicks of pleasure when Harry jacks deep inside one last time, shouting Louis' name and pulsing hot stripes that seem to claim him.

They wind down together, shivering with little aftershocks, and chuckling breathlessly into each others' mouths. Louis isn't sure which of them starts it, but soon the giggles spiral out into exhilarated laughter, sweet like spun sugar as Harry loosens the blindfold and ribbons. 

To say that Harry's face is the best thing to open his eyes to is an understatement.

"I can feel your heart beating," Harry tells him like a secret.

Louis didn't think he liked secrets. 

He likes this kind.

"I can feel yours too," he whispers. "Guess that means we're both alive, innit?" and he laughs because he's far from profound, but there's a meaning there that rings true for both of them. 

"Lots of life left," Harry nods, getting it straight away. "What do you want to do with it?"

"Retire to Devon and get ducks."

"What?" Harry blinks, both delighted and spooked. "How did you…?"

Louis sniggers. "I read a couple of pages of your journal while I was waiting for the asshats to leave."

"That's private, Louis," Harry grins. "Does that plan sound alright to you?"

"Sounds great. As long as ducks don't herald the sound of morning, then we can have as many as you like."

"That's cockerels," Harry chuckles. "I think we should write a book." 

Louis makes a snoring sound. “Riveting mate, yeah.”

"No, we'll write an interesting one. And we'll call it, **'** _I am, in fact, straight... and other lies'._ "

"Wow, you've really thought about this."

Harry shrugs proudly.

Louis snorts, eyes following the soft tickle of his fingers along Harry's lifeline. "The first thing you need to do is write me a love song."

"I've written you dozens of love songs," Harry responds immediately. "You just didn't know it at the time. You, on the other hand, still owe me one from the other day."

Louis puts a theatrical hand to his chest. "I told you… genius can't be rushed."

"Not sure we have _that_ much life left. Maybe aim lower. Mediocre would be quicker, right?"

And if Harry hadn't been expecting it, Louis would have absolutely succeeded in poking him in the eye.

"You love my songs," Louis insists, flipping him off instead. "Say it."

"I love your songs," Harry obliges. "I really do," he adds, so earnestly that Louis' chest swells with pride. "Wish I could write like you."

Louis dips his head for a second until he thinks the worst of his blush is gone. "I'll have you know that on that particular day, you were distracting me with your ridiculously hot everything, so," he offers Harry a one shoulder shrug. "And besides, I may have a few songs up my sleeve myself." He laughs at Harry's hopeful expression. "Yes, they're about you, you giant child."

"Maybe we'll scrap the book idea and just write songs for each other."

Louis hums. "That sounds better," he thinks aloud. He supposes he'll have to do something other than watching Harry exist, and writing more songs about him doesn't sound half bad.

When he looks back at Harry, he can already see the first draft of a new chorus taking shape in those green green eyes.

~

**Harry**

Harry is always grateful when he wakes up to find that Louis remains — in his band, in his living room, in his life. Always with the edge of awe and surprise, despite sharing careers, houses, and an instant kindle-spark friendship.

Today feels different. It's the same feeling but it's magnified to the power of black holes and superheroes.

Today, a sharp beam of early morning sunshine discovers them, palm to palm and a tangle of limbs, and words like _awed_ and _surprised_ and _grateful_ don't seem to cover it. He's been waiting years to wake to the tickle of Louis' breath on his bare shoulder, to open his eyes and find Louis' body pressed flush against the front of him from shoulder to ankle. _Years_. 

Harry has imagined it, of course. Has imagined a lot of things and most of them mortifying now that he's outgrown ugly purple trainers and popped colours. But he's a romantic, and although the disappointed and the jaded might say that's naive and immature, Harry disagrees. Harry thinks that perhaps the disappointed and the jaded never met Louis Tomlinson.

One thing he'd never fully gotten round to imagining, however, is Louis singing him awake. Harry smiles at the sound, then smiles harder when he opens his eyes and realises that Louis is somehow singing in his sleep. 

And today, Harry can listen. And he can reach out and caress the stories on Louis' skin. The tall tales and the lullabies, and before long Harry's laying there thinking of fables and fairytales, of unexpected sirens and overwhelmed English harbors. 

It's all very poetic until Louis shifts suddenly with a very real-life sounding snore, but Harry loves real-life Louis more than his idolised alter ego, and Harry's bed was always too big anyway, too empty. Louis fills it up, wraps him up.

So no, Harry isn’t going to complain, even when Louis’ sharp elbow finds its way into a particularly sensitive spot on his side. He’ll probably feel it later, a bruised rib protesting, but maybe Louis will kiss it better, and Harry couldn't care less if he didn't.

"Your thoughts are fucking deafening, did you know that?" Louis says suddenly, voice sleep heavy and rough.

He doesn't see Harry's grin until he grumpily flops over onto his back. His starfish stretch brings his upper thigh into contact with Harry's morning wood.

"Why, good morning," Louis husks with a slow syruping smile, moving his leg experimentally and watching for Harry's reaction with no small amount of glee.

Harry grunts, lazily riding Louis' thigh with a whine. 

Louis' laugh is gorgeously raspy. "Fortunately for you, I'm always horny when I've just woken up."

"Well, that works out well because I'm horny all the time and you wake up every day. Sometimes more than once."

Louis sniggers. "Every bit of that is true." He reaches out to play with Harry's necklace, tweaking a nipple on the way. "Think I owe you a new cross."

Harry shakes his head. "No, you don't," he says, feeling for the teeth marks under his fingertips. "I like it like this. With your mark. Maybe I could bite something of yours."

Louis' grin is filthy. He bounces over onto his tummy eagerly and tips his hips up to wiggle his bum.

Understandably distracted, it takes a couple of very long moments for Harry to drag his attention back up to Louis' face. "I actually meant a mark that lasts."

Louis stretches out. "Suit yourself."

"Having said that," Harry starts slowly, excitedly, hand smoothing over one beautifully plump ass cheek. "If I bite you, and then we run down to the tattoo place real quick—"

"NO," Louis laughs and rolls back over like he's protecting his backside against the threat of a needle.

No matter. From this angle, Harry gets to play his fingers across the ink on Louis' chest, which is swiftly becoming his new favourite activity.

He draws the 78, writes the script, and absorbs the others with his eyes. These are the same tattoos he's seen so many times, but now, amongst them, he can spot the little whispering threats of unhappy endings that they've both spent too much time considering. It's like Louis' arms and chest and shoulders took the burden of the dark thoughts, the foreboding feelings, so that his eyes didn't have to. To keep it deep, to keep it hidden.

That's when Harry gets an idea.

"I was thinking…" He stops, clears his throat and tries again. "I was thinking that I need to do a phone-in with Grimmy real quick. And I umm, I was wondering whether you wanted to speak to him about anything? Grimmy, I mean... and his listeners?"

Louis, who's been contentedly watching pigeons argue outside the window, snaps his head round lightning quick.

Harry holds his gaze with just the right amount of intensity to get him to understand. "I mean, I thought I could say _hi_ ," Harry continues, "but did you want to speak to him at the end?"

Normally Louis would say something like, _'Why the fuck would I want to do that?'_ But today, being the kind of out-of-the-ordinary dream-manifesting day that it is, he's actually thinking about it. 

"You could… you could say anything you wanted. Or not. You don't have to. Just a thought, you know…It's your call, from now on, it's your call."

Harry watches the quick cogs of Louis' brain whirr with the possibilities, cartwheel around the opportunity to assess it from all angles, and his eyes are wandering far away, searching through clouds.

Eventually, he looks back at Harry, and as he sits there in the pool of dawn colours the morning sends through Harry's window, he smiles a tentative smile that starts at the corner of his mouth and brightens Harry's skies. "I… yeah, I might have something to tell him."

"Yeah?" Harry checks, giving him time to nod before he reaches for his phone. 

Louis has to nod again expectantly before Harry shakes himself out of his stupor and starts typing.

**Harry:** Nicholas… you know how embarrassingly desperate you are to have me on your show?

 **Harry:** … You really didn't have to send me death threats, by the way. Bit desperate, to be honest...

 **Harry:** A friend and I could really use some air time, please. I'll make you brownies. The good ones.

The phone tells him Nick's typing but Harry translates it as 'rolling eyes'.

**Nicholas:** Who even is this?

Harry snorts.

**Nicholas:** This better be good, Harold. You know how my listeners hate you.

 **Nicholas:** After the news?

Harry looks at his watch.

**Harry:** I'll put my best voice on. 

"Do I need to claw some eyes out?" Louis pipes up, eyebrows raised.

"You mean Nick?" Harry sputters with laughter. "Seriously?"

"I don't trust him with you."

"You can trust _everyone_ with me. I only want you."

Even during one of Louis' mercurial flips of temperament, Harry's never seen Louis' face change so fast. The speed with which his expression slides from concerned to carefree warms Harry's heart.

"Okay, well he's ringing in a minute but if you change your mind I can just make up some shit about getting a pet or something. Just, like, gesture at me or something."

"I can think of a few gestures to throw at you," Louis huffs, and only Harry would know that he's nervous and happy and ready all at once. "But no, I umm… I don't think I'll change my mind."

Harry feels like he could dip Louis into a Hollywood kiss and it wouldn't be too dramatic. Outside, the morning is young and the clouds slide, freeing the sun.

Harry's phone rings once.

Looking from the screen to Louis, Harry leans over the phone, meeting Louis' lips in the middle. "I love you," he whispers when they part.

The second ring makes him jump.

He reaches for the phone but a hand stops him. 

And Louis, who's always been the bravest of all of them, says, "May as well just answer it myself," and picks up the phone, thumb hovering and ready to answer.

From here, Harry can meet Louis' eyes, absorb every fleck of colour until the edges of his world turn blue.

The day Harry met Louis is one Harry remembers in vivid technicolour, and no moment more clearly than when Louis had seemed ready to walk out of Harry's life just minutes after entering it. In that split second, when it felt like Harry's life was breaking but bettering like a changing season, Louis' goodbye was upbeat but exactly that… goodbye. Not _au revoir._ Not _see ya around,_ and Harry simply couldn't summon the will to concede that this was both the start and the end, a planetary alignment never to be repeated.

Harry has won a lot since that day. Has lost a lot too, but all with the net gain of Louis. So it seems to Harry that that moment of certainty so long ago may have been prophetic. That it could have led them here.

To where Harry finally feels right, like his skin fits and his bones are settled. And to where Louis' face is full of determination and self-belief as he holds Harry's gaze like he really truly loves him.

In Louis' hand, the phone rings again.

When the line clicks open, they both smile.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like this story and are feeling generous enough, please like and comment :)


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